


We're Here Now

by shattered_glass



Category: South Park
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Past Rape/Non-con, Rape/Non-con Elements, Recovery, Sex, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-21
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-14 05:25:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17502431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shattered_glass/pseuds/shattered_glass
Summary: On a Tuesday evening in the late fall, Kyle Broflovski gets a phone call.He goes from there.





	We're Here Now

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first South Park fic - I've always LOVED Stan's character and think that there are a lot of interesting directions that fic writers go with him. I wanted to try it for myself!
> 
> Although I did not choose to include trigger warnings in the tags, this fic DOES include some difficult topics, such as suicide attempt, overdose, rape, and recovery from hard drugs. I spent a lot of time researching, plus used my own experience to write this. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think! I have not edited this or went back and revised it, because I write for fun and revising SUCKS. If you find any mistakes - and you probably will - whoops.
> 
> Also, this is my first time EVER writing sex. So if it turns you off, it's probably because I suck at writing it.
> 
> Please enjoy!

It was early evening on a Tuesday in the late fall. Kyle had left the restaurant because he felt faint, again succumbing to the usual bouts of dizzy spells and sickness that he used to get when he was a child, while Jacob waited and paid for the bill. The fresh air cooled Kyle off, filled his lungs, let him breathe. He sat on the stone bench just outside the doors and heard the same upbeat Mexican music, muffled now, getting louder and softer like a siren whenever someone opened the door. It was cold outside—much colder than it had been recently. He might have to dig out his winter coat, soon. He missed the Colorado winters sometimes. He liked snow occasionally and the cold made him feel alert, awake. A few more people came and went. Kyle watched them, talking easily to one another, just another regular Tuesday night.

Kyle felt his pocket buzz and groaned, expecting it to be work, calling him into the office late again. They seemed to use the young people more than anyone, with the knowledge that they had no other experience or job prospects in case they felt the desire to abandon the company for their abuse of the youth. He froze up when he saw who was actually calling.

Stan Marsh.

Could he still have the same number after all this time? The same number that Kyle had saved into his phone back in junior high when they all got their own phones? Kyle realized that it was a stupid question to ask—here Stan was, calling Kyle, who obviously had the same number all this time, the number that Stan put in his own phone back in junior high.

“Hello?”

He answered before he could really think about it. He heard shuffling on the other line.

“Hi, Kyle.”

Yeah, it was Stan. He sounded tired.

“Yeah—what’s up?” Too confused to be concerned, Kyle shifted his weight and switched the phone from his right hand to his left.

“I just…” Stan paused. “I don’t know. Tell me about your day.”

So he was drunk. That was it. He wasn’t tired, he wasn’t trying to casually patch things up with small gestures like a phone call—he drunk dialed Kyle. What a fucking child.

“My day?”

Again, Kyle talked without thinking. He was angry, sure—but Stan was speaking so quietly, lacking the same rage and vile words he’d spewed at Kyle the last few times they spoke. It wasn’t like Kyle was doing anything else. Jacob took forever, always chatting with the waiters and waitresses like they were his best friends.

“Yeah. Like, what did you do? What did you eat for breakfast?”

“For breakfast?” Kyle thought for a moment. The siren of music blared as another couple left the restaurant. “I had…um…waffles. That’s right. I had waffles.”

“That’s a fancy way to start the day,” Stan said.

“No, they were just those frozen gluten-free kind.”

“Oh, god, you’re gluten-free,” Stan said, and Kyle cracked a smile.

“I know. I’m ashamed enough for the both of us.”

“You’re killing me.”

“Sorry.”

It was weird. It was weird, talking like this, but Kyle couldn’t hang up. He should be angry. Hell, he _was_ angry. But he couldn’t hang up.

“What about after breakfast? What did you do?”

“Uh, I went to work. And it was pretty boring. I got coffee for my boss and everything, like some 18-year-old unpaid intern.”

“You’re living the dream.”

“Yeah,” Kyle said. “I love getting skim lattes for old men.”

“Skim lattes for old men,” Stan repeated. He was really drunk, or high, or something. He was slipping. Kyle shifted again, bounced his foot, annoyed as he pictured Stan high off his ass and calling Kyle like nothing had ever happened.

“Yeah. And then I went home. Not such an exciting day.”

“It sounds perfect.” Stan was barely audible.

“And then I got tacos.” Why the hell was he still talking? Was he that pathetic, that he’d entertain drunk, insensitive Stan, telling him stories about tacos and skim lattes?

“On corn tortillas.”

“Yeah, on corn tortillas.”

“Because those ones don’t…they’re not…they don’t have gluten in them, Kyle.”

“I’m aware,” Kyle said, his mouth betraying him and curling into a smile.

“Kyle.”

“Yeah…yeah?” He couldn’t even say Stan’s name.

And he didn’t have to, it turns out. Stan’s voice disappeared completely, and there was nearly no noise at all, and then the call finally ended.

Kyle wanted to hurl his phone at the pavement.

* * *

It was evening on a Tuesday in the late fall. Kyle lay on the couch with his feet across Jacob’s lap, reading a worn copy of _Catcher in the Rye,_ which he often did on these lazy nights when Jacob had to study and Kyle had nothing to do. The door to their balcony was open slightly so that cool air could slip into the apartment and fill every corner, the way Kyle liked it and Jacob tolerated. Jacob cleared his throat every once in a while, but never to say anything, just as he turned a page in his book or wrote a note down in the margins. Kyle didn’t mind silence. He loved it, actually. But Jacob, so quiet, and so content with being so quiet, made Kyle irrationally annoyed sometimes. He had no reason to feel that way. They had nothing to say to each other in this tranquil moment, and yet, Kyle longed to tell stupid jokes, watch TV while talking over it, anything at all that involved that easy conversation that Kyle loved so much.

When Kyle’s phone buzzed, he almost jumped. They’d spent the past few hours in silence, and Kyle, although it was barely just ten o’clock, began to doze off. He didn’t recognize the number but answered anyways, grateful for the distraction. When he answered, he heard static and a far-off voice and supposed it was a wrong number, but just before he took the phone away from his ear, heard familiarity in the muffled voice and spoke into the phone again.

“Hello?”

“Kyle, can you hear me? I don’t have great reception here, I—”

“Ike?” Kyle asked, sitting up as his heart lifted. “Ike, I can hear you! Not too well, but my reception is kind of shitty here, too. Let me go out onto the balcony,” He added, when he saw Jacob glance up at him with that face he always made when Kyle was being too distracting.

Kyle slipped outside in his bare feet and thin sweater, autumn air filling his lungs so full he thought he might burst. Ike hadn’t called him since he left for Russia. It was expensive and it was a hazard, so they’d decided they would just catch up whenever they catch up. Kyle hadn’t realized how much he missed his brother, and then wondered why he missed him so much when Ike had just visited that spring.

“Okay, I’m in a better spot now.” The static was gone. Kyle leaned on the railing and pressed the phone as close as he could to his face. “How are you?”

“Kyle, I just need to tell you something, okay?” Ike said. Now that the static was gone, Ike’s voice was clear, and there was something else there in Ike’s voice, something he always got when he was scared or upset.

“Um, okay,” Kyle said, and before he even got two words out, Ike spoke again.

“I don’t know what you’re up to right now or whatever, but I just need to tell you—shit, I don’t even know how to start, Kyle,” Ike said, and his voice wavered. “Mom would have told you, but she didn’t have any fucking clue how to. And it’s later there, you know, in South Park, so she went back home after calling me. She said she was gonna wait until tomorrow to talk to you, but I don’t know, I just really want you to know.”

“Ike, what’s wrong? Is Mom okay? Dad?”

“Yeah, they’re both fine, I—”

“Are you okay, Ike?” Kyle asked, trying to somehow figure it out even quicker, to piece together Ike’s choked up voice and his late night call all the way from Russia. Part of him wanted to keep stalling so that he wouldn’t have to hear whatever Ike had to say.

“I’m fine. Yeah, no, it’s not us. And Mom only told me because she knew that I knew about him, and she wanted to ask me if she should call you, and—she just had no idea what to do, so that’s why she called me. I just wanted to let you know that.”

“Ike, what’s going on?” Kyle asked, his breathing just a tiny bit shallower, only just beginning to put together _I knew about him._

“Okay. I know you’re done with him, I know you don’t even want to hear this—especially this—”

“Oh, Christ,” Kyle said, and in that half a second, worry was replaced with rage, because of course, of course this was about Stan fucking Marsh, of course this was about the fact that his family couldn’t fucking grow up and accept that Kyle and Stan weren’t—

“Stan tried to kill himself. Earlier today. Or tonight, whatever time it is over there. He tried to kill himself, Kyle, and it’s bad.”

The air left Kyle’s body.

“Someone on the floor below him heard something, I guess, I don’t know how it happened exactly—but he was brought to the hospital and—Mom said it was just so—it was so—”

Ike was choking, it was like he couldn’t even breathe, and Kyle just stood there against the railing, and his face was numb and waves of cold and then hot rushed over his body.

“The doctors at first didn’t know if it was the drugs or the cutting that did it, but then they saw cuts on his thighs, and—”

“Did it?” Kyle repeated. He could barely hear his own voice, barely find the air to breathe out those two words that could mean the end of—

“He’s alive. They didn’t know if it was the drugs or the cutting that landed him in the hospital—at first they thought he overdosed, that he might’ve accidentally overdid it, but they saw how bloody his arms and legs were and told Mom that it had been a suicide attempt. It couldn’t have been anything else. Maybe the drugs were part of the attempt that time, too, I don’t know. They don’t know. He’s alive, Kyle, he’s not going to die from this.”

Kyle only realized when he let go of the railing how dizzy he was. His knees immediately gave out and he crashed onto the stone-cold pavement of their little balcony, now eye-level with the rusty bars on the railing. He wanted to scream at Ike, for making him believe this. He wanted to scream Ike’s own words back at him, how Ike implied that Stan “overdid it,” like Stan was some sort of druggie. He wanted to scream at Ike for adding on “from this” when he told Kyle that Stan wasn’t going to die, he wanted to scream at the image of Stan, sensitive, kind-hearted Stan Marsh with legs and arms gashed open.

 “Kyle?” Ike asked.

“Is he awake?” Kyle nearly whispered.

“No. Apparently he regained consciousness, but only for a bit. They say he’ll be conscious and fully aware of his surroundings tomorrow. Now he’s just hooked up to a bunch of shit and sleeping, I guess.”

“Who’s there with him?” Kyle asked, his throat tight for the first time with the image of Stan alone in a hospital bed, wondering why he was still alive.

“Sharon is. Shelley didn’t want to go—she knew that Stan would hate having the both of them there after that. She’s hanging back until he knows what’s happening.”

Shelley. Loud, abrasive Shelley, suddenly kind and sympathetic. Or maybe it wasn’t sudden. Kyle hadn’t seen Shelley in over six years.

“How does Mom—she was at the hospital—you said it only just happened,” Kyle said, hoping Ike would understand his fragmented thoughts.

“Sharon missed the call. She was out, or something, I don’t know. Mom is Stan’s second emergency contact, so they called her and she went over. Sharon got there not too much longer after Mom was there. But, yeah, they told Mom everything.”

“Did she see him?”

“Yeah. Just for a second, when she was leaving and Sharon was going in.”

“Did she—say—how he was doing?” Kyle could barely get the words out. He pressed a hand to his throat to will the giant lump there away.

“Yeah.”

There was a long silence, and then Kyle said, in a voice he didn’t recognize, “Ike.”

“She was nearly hysterical when she called me. How do you think he looks, Kyle? She saw this kid who she’s known for twenty-two years laid up in a hospital bed with a million IVs sticking out of him and bandages literally covering his entire arms. You haven’t even seen him recently—he’s got these bags under his eyes, and he’s so fucking thin, Mom said he looked like he could snap in that fucking hospital gown.”

“Ike,” Kyle said again, although it sounded like a sob, and Ike kept going.

“She told me everything that had happened, I think mostly because she didn’t know who else to talk to. And she’s been respecting your decisions, you know that—she’s come to really love how happy you seem out there, and she’s stopped hoping for some magical reunion between you and Stan—but she still felt like you should know about this, you know? So she called me because she didn’t know what to do. I told her to go to bed and worry about it tomorrow. She’d been through enough shit. So she did, and then I was the one who had no fucking idea what to do.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kyle gasped out, thinking of his mother, confused and upset, and Ike, all the way across the world and dealing with this shit.

“I just thought you should know.” Ike was more composed now. It was always that way, with Ike and Kyle—if one of them was upset, the other one had to be strong. It was like Ike could see Kyle, doubled over on his balcony, close to vomiting, holding back sobs in his shaking chest.

“Is he—will he be out of the hospital any time soon?” Kyle asked, and Ike laughed—not meanly, not bitterly, but as if he were trying to make Kyle feel better, somehow, by hearing it.

“No, Kyle. He’s going to be in the hospital for a while. And then when he’s done with this one, you know, I guess he’ll have to go to another one. For, you know. The other stuff.”

A mental hospital. Jesus Christ.

“I—should I—” And the memory of that last phone call they had, and their fight in the parking lot, when Kyle walked away feeling like a champion, leaving Stan behind.

“I’m not telling you to come back. That’s not what this call is about. It’s just that, soon it’ll be all over South Park, and I think it’d be shitty to find out through someone else. Or Facebook, or something. Do I think you should come back, though?” Ike asked, and Kyle clutched one of the bars on the railing, his knuckles already white. For the first time in years, he imagined what it’d be like—what it would really, really be like—to go back to South Park.

“I don’t know. Maybe this is one of those times that’s monumental enough that you can put all of you and Stan’s shit behind you. Not forever, you know, but for right now.”

Put it behind them. All of it. The years of unrelenting, unrequited love, the pain of being in the closet for so long, their arguments, the insults hurled at each other like bullets from a gun. The abuse Kyle suffered at the hands of that town.

The funeral that Kyle didn’t go to.

“I know, it’s a lot of shit,” Ike said, reading Kyle’s mind. “I guess I would say this: If nothing else, come for Sharon.”

“For Mrs. Marsh?” Kyle repeated numbly, still not used to the fact that Ike called her Sharon—the fact that Ike grew up into a man that got to call her by her first name, and Kyle never did.

“Yeah,” Ike said softly, and then he paused a long time, and Kyle tried to picture where Ike was standing on a cold, snowy Russian street. Ike sighed softly into the phone finally and said:

“I don’t know if she would be able to handle both her husband and her son dying.”

When Kyle slid open the balcony door and his naked feet touched the carpet again, Jacob glanced up.

“Everything okay?” He asked as he returned to his textbook. Kyle barely had time to wonder why Jacob wasn’t even a little more concerned about him. Kyle’s feet carried him straight to the room he and Jacob shared, straight to his closet, straight to the untouched suitcase tucked away in the corner. Feeling was beginning to return to his face but his hands continued to shake. Excerpts of his conversation with Ike echoed so loudly in his head that he jumped sometimes, thinking that Ike was in the room, speaking to him.

“Where are you going?” Jacob was suddenly there, in the doorway, and Kyle’s bag was suddenly full. When Kyle turned around, he answered Jacob with a word he hadn’t used to describe South Park in six years.

“Home.”

* * *

 

He left Jacob the next morning on the first flight he could find. Jacob drove him to the airport, the silence between them tense with the knowledge that even though Kyle promised he’d come back as soon as things settled down back in South Park, there was something different that hadn’t yet arrived, something that would suggest this drive as one of their last. The flight was relatively calm, and it was easy enough for Kyle to focus on his schedule, the routine of getting to the airport and checking his bags and waiting in the gate, rather than the thoughts that made his heart jump to his throat.

At the gate, he called his mother and told her he’d be home soon. He stayed calm and collected while she unraveled with relief at the thought of him coming home after all this time. He felt so grown up, like this, supporting his mother as he waited to board his plane. He liked this feeling much better than the feeling he got whenever he thought about what awaited him in South Park.

He expected the cab ride back to his childhood home to be tense. He expected to feel sick at the sight of South Park again; to lay eyes on the familiar grocery stores and movie theaters and restaurants again. He even recognized some people as they drew nearer to his neighborhood and expected he would immediately slink down in his seat so they wouldn’t notice him—but he didn’t. He didn’t feel sick. He didn’t feel scared. It was, as it had always been, South Park. It was as though the distance he put between himself and the town—physically, emotionally, mentally—was never even necessary, because this is South Park, and it was so goddamn familiar that Kyle felt like he was coming home for a visit and nothing else.

For a sick moment, though, Kyle, lost in his thoughts, wondered if he should give Stan a call while he was in town. It was only for a half second, that thought, free of baggage and forgetting the real reason he came here, but when it ended, Kyle shut his eyes tightly and shook his head.

When he rounded the corner and saw his house, Kyle cleared his throat, just to make sure that his voice was still working. His mother was standing in the window already, and he saw her call something out over her shoulder as the cab rolled into the driveway. She was out in a heartbeat, paying the cab driver before Kyle even had his wallet out. When Kyle was in the house, his mother was squeezing the life out of him and his dad was patting him on the back tiredly. They both looked so exhausted. Kyle vaguely wondered just how much they’d been worrying about Stan lately. From what Ike said, Stan had been slipping for some time, now, and Kyle’s mother always thought of Stan as her son.

She’d cooked him a meal, and even though Kyle tried to eat breakfast and then threw it up at the airport and didn’t want to even think about food, he ate as much as he could while his mother watched him. They talked briefly—about Kyle’s job, about Jacob, about the apartment—but after only fifteen minutes, Kyle couldn’t take it anymore, and said “I need to see him, Mom,” and there was something about his mother being there that made Kyle’s voice crack as he said it. Sheila just nodded and gave Kyle the information—where to park, what door to enter, what room Stan was in. The hospital in South Park was twisty and confusing, and Kyle always got lost going in there, even if it was just for a simple doctor’s appointment.

Without another word, Kyle accepted his mother’s kiss on his head and was out the door again, sliding into the old familiar family car that was surely too old to be safe by now.

Sharon was at the hospital when he got there—thankfully, she was just leaving Stan’s room, and caught Kyle just as he was waved through by the nurses at the front desk. Kyle caught a glimpse of the hospital bed behind her as she swung the curtain shut, and felt paralyzed with the knowledge that Stan was right there, so close, lying in that bed.

“Kyle.” Sharon looked like she was seeing a ghost. Kyle supposed that he should have let her know he was coming. He hadn’t seen her in years, and was sure that she wasn’t Kyle’s biggest fan after everything that had happened. She stood there by Stan’s room, unmoving, looking at Kyle with an open mouth. She looked tired, too. Was this how all the adults in South Park looked now? Kyle wanted to laugh at himself for asking that question—a 24-year-old who still referred to others as “adults,” as if he were still a little kid.

“Hi, Mrs. Marsh,” Kyle said stupidly, unable to come up with any other words. “Ike—my mom—they let me know what happened, and I thought I would come back,” Kyle started to say, and then wanted to kick himself for the phrasing—I thought I would come back—like it was a little vacation for him, and he might as well drop by. But Sharon didn’t seem to mind, because not two seconds later, Kyle was wrapped up in her arms.

“It’s so good to see you, sweetheart,” She said, and Kyle wanted to die, thinking again about Randy’s funeral, wondering if she’d somehow forgotten that Kyle didn’t show up. But he just hugged her back with shaking hands and nodded into her shoulder. She smelled like she always did.

“I was just leaving to get some coffee,” She said tiredly as she pulled away, wiping her eyes. “I’ve been here since—I don’t even know. A while, I suppose. Did you just get here?”

“My plane landed a couple hours ago. I took a cab back to Mom and Dad’s, and then came here. I—is it okay—can I see him?”

“Of course you can,” Sharon said, and patted Kyle’s check softly a few times. “Thank you. I just need some time for myself, just some coffee, maybe rest my eyes for a minute.”

“Of course,” Kyle said politely. It was like the life had been sucked out of her. She looked so empty and sad.

Kyle started to walk towards Stan’s room when Sharon stopped him again.

“Kyle? How long has it been since you’ve seen Stan?”

“Um. A little over two years ago, I suppose.”

“Oh,” Sharon said, touching her hand to her mouth, “Oh, that’s quite a bit of time, isn’t it?” She looked somewhere past Kyle for a second, lost. “He doesn’t look like you might remember. He changed a lot in the past few years, you know…He’s very tired. He’s been through quite a lot. Just—try to remember that, okay?”

“Okay,” Kyle croaked. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s all right, Kyle. I just don’t want you to be too surprised.”

And with that, she disappeared around the corner and Kyle was left standing at Stan’s door, fear in his throat. Before he could even begin to change his mind, Kyle turned around and took the remaining five steps to be in Stan’s room, standing right next to Stan, for the first time in over two years, and Sharon meant well, but nothing she said could have prepared Kyle for what he saw.

Stan was sleeping—or at least, his eyes were closed—when Kyle got in. He fell into the chair by Stan’s bed immediately, unable to hold himself up. Stan’s face was gaunt, and the dark bags under his eyes that Ike talked about weren’t just that; they were deep purple and yellowing bruises, sunken into a bony white face. His lips were nearly as white as the small expanse of pale skin not covered in bruises. His arms were completely wrapped in bandages, and his hands were veiny and white as paper. Even underneath the hospital gown, Kyle could see how skinny Stan was. Nothing but bones. Kyle gasped, realizing he hadn’t breathed since he got in the room, and his shudder and the beeping of the machines were the only sounds around him. Kyle looked away sharply when his eyes landed on a string of bruising around Stan’s neck. Kyle reached out slowly and touched one of Stan’s hands. They used to hold hands, back when they were little, like all little boys and girls do. Stan’s hands were warm, always. Nothing in this bed was Stan Marsh.

Stan’s eyes opened slowly at Kyle’s touch and his head fell to the side. He made a soft sound, his face tightening with pain. Their eyes met and Kyle held his breath. He was about to speak when Stan shut his eyes tightly and shook his head, which apparently hurt even more, because he groaned. Kyle watched silently. Stan opened his eyes again, looked at Kyle, and then did the exact same thing—eyes shut tight, head shaking. It wasn’t until the third time he did this that Kyle realized, with a sinking feeling, what Stan was doing.

“It’s me,” Kyle hurried. “I’m here.”

“You’re not real,” Stan whispered, and there it was, there was his voice, hoarse and broken, but there it was. Kyle nodded violently.

“I am.”

“It’s hallucinations. They said this might happen. You’re not real, he’s not real,” Stan babbled to himself. Kyle leaned closer, wanting so badly to grasp Stan’s hand tighter but it was already so fragile that Kyle feared he might break it. Stan just lay in bed, staring at the wall, repeating his mantra to himself.

“I am. I flew back from DC this morning. I just talked to your mom, outside, she’s getting some coffee.”

This made Stan pause. Maybe it was the details that convinced him. The mention of DC, or of his mother. He looked at Kyle so deeply with his bloodshot blue eyes, and Kyle stared back, unable to do anything else.

“Ike—he called me last night, after Mom saw you. I booked a flight and came right back. I just got here a few minutes ago—I used my mom’s minivan, it’s like, 25 years old by now. She needs a new car. There’s no way that thing is safe anymore. I don’t want her driving a minivan that’s a quarter of a century old. I don’t want myself driving a minivan that’s a quarter of a century old.” Kyle was babbling now, because the more he said, the more awake Stan got, and the more he really believed that Kyle was here with him. Stan’s eyes crinkled at the sides when Kyle mentioned the van. He didn’t smile, but his eyes lit up with something.

“So, I’m here. And it’s fucking freezing.”

At this, Stan did smile, his dry, cracked turned up just slightly. The boys were quiet for a bit.

“You’re real.”

“Yeah.”

“You look so old,” Stan finally said in that same grating voice. Kyle’s eyes fell again to the bruises around Stan’s neck, the comment catching him off guard. He looked down at his outfit, as if looking for an explanation as to why Stan thought he looked old. But Kyle was just wearing jeans and a blue sweater, wrinkled from the plane ride. Stan watched Kyle quietly, and Kyle felt his face grow hot.

“I don’t know whether that’s a compliment or an insult,” Kyle smiled wider than he needed to, but he couldn’t help it.

“Your hair is short. I can barely see the curls.” Stan breathed. Every word seemed to take effort. Kyle ran a hand through his hair, remembering how he used to let the curls grow out, and Stan would always run his hand through it.

“Really? Everyone makes fun of me for how curly it is.”

“Oh, they have no idea.”

“And we’re going to keep it that way.”

Stan let out a huff of laughter and then closed his eyes and winced in pain. Kyle watched helplessly, unsure whether to ask him if he needed anything. Conversation. Normal enough, it seemed. Talking about Kyle’s hair. Kyle was on the edge of his chair, as though he were watching a movie. When Stan opened his eyes again, there was no trace of a smile anymore, and Kyle thought that Stan was angry with him, that Stan would tell him to leave.

“I didn’t want you to see me like this,” Stan said. Kyle opened his mouth soundlessly. “I was good, for a while. Going to school and getting good grades. Playing football. I wanted you to see me then, when I was good. I didn’t want you to see this.” Stan’s lip trembled. “I didn’t use to be like this. I didn’t want you to come back and see what a fuck-up I am. I didn’t think you would. I wasn’t expecting to wake up, but I did, and I wish I hadn’t fucked that up, either.”

Kyle’s eyes were full now. He tried to will the tears away so Stan couldn’t see. Stan’s voice remained steady but ragged. He looked too exhausted to cry or yell. Kyle wondered if Stan was too tired to even be angry.

“They’re gonna put me in some hospital with psychologists and shit like that. I can’t do it. I can’t go through that shit. Kyle,” Stan said, and it sounded like a plea. “Why’d you come back? I don’t want you to think of me like this. You hate me, and I dragged you back down with another fuck-up. If I did it right, you wouldn’t need to be here now.”

“Dude,” Kyle burst finally, a tear slipping down his cheek. He wiped it away quickly. Stan’s face crumpled at the term of affection Kyle hadn’t used on him in years, but he didn’t cry. He just tried to breathe steadily, every inch of his body twitching with pain.

“You called me,” Kyle said. “Do you remember that? You wanted to hear about my day. I—shit, Stan, I thought you were just drunk, or something. We talked, a little, do you remember that?”

“Oh,” Stan said, closing his eyes and turning his head back so he was facing the ceiling. “I didn’t know if that was real or not. Christ.” He paused, the only sound between the boys his rattling breath. “I’m sorry.”

“No, dude, that’s not what—I’m not mad,” Kyle whispered, scooting his chair closer to Stan’s bed, like somehow Stan couldn’t hear him as well with his eyes closed. “I’m not asking for an apology. I just…” Kyle felt sick with the sudden realization. “Did you call me—was that right before…this happened?”

“During,” Stan said softly, and Kyle put his head in his right hand, the one that wasn’t holding Stan’s, and wiped away more tears. Stan must have mistaken Kyle’s silence for anger again, and Kyle couldn’t blame him. Whenever Kyle was angry, he got quiet. Stan was used to that by now.

“It was selfish. I’m sorry. I’d taken the drugs and—you know—” His arm twitched under Kyle’s hand.  Kyle’s mind spun, conjuring up all sorts of images of what Stan’s arms might look like underneath the bandages. “And I thought that was it. And I thought of you. And it was like nothing had ever happened between us. I just wanted to hear your voice again. I wanted to have a normal conversation with you, one more time. It was stupid. It was fucked up. But I just kept thinking that you were the first person on earth I was ever friends with. When I think of my earliest memory, I hear your voice, when we were in pre-school. And I wanted you to be my last memory, too. I wanted you to be mine, because if I died, no one could take that away from me, ever. I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. It was fucked up, and I didn’t deserve you like that.”

Stan’s breath was getting shallower, his body sinking further into the cushions, exhausted from talking so much. Kyle left his head in his hand, his elbow propped up on his knee, trying to keep himself from throwing up. He focused all his energy on Stan’s hand. Cool to the touch and chapped, unlike his usual soft and warm hands—but it was Stan’s hand, it was Stan Marsh’s hand underneath Kyle’s, and that was the best thing in the entire world in this moment.

Ike was right, last night on the phone. This was one of those moments that was too fucking huge to think about everything that the two men had been through. “Put it behind you. Not forever, but for now,” Ike had said, and that’s what Kyle was going to do. It’s what he had done the moment he got on the plane back in DC.

“I’m here, Stan,” Kyle said when his stomach settled. “You don’t have to be sorry. I’m right here.”

Stan opened his eyes and turned his head to look at Kyle again, letting it fall and settle against the flat hospital pillow.

“You can go,” He said. “I’m not going to keep you here anymore. You’re not responsible for me. You’re not responsible for any of this shit that I keep trying to bring you back to.”

“I’m right here,” Kyle repeated. “I am right here, dude.”

“I know, but I’m saying, you don’t have to be,” Stan huffed, and it was so incredibly _Stan_ that Kyle wanted to cry. “You can leave, and I won’t blame you. I’m embarrassed enough. No matter what happens next, you won’t be responsible for it.”

No matter what happens next.

At that moment, Sharon appeared back in the doorway hesitantly.

“I’m sorry—I can give you boys more time, if you need,” She said questioningly, and Kyle and Stan both shook their heads, worn out by their reunion. Kyle turned to Stan and realized that leaving meant he needed to untangle his hand from Stan’s. He leaned in as he stood up from the chair.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, dude.” It came out of his mouth so easily.

“Okay,” Stan said, and his eyes fluttered shut again, and Kyle bashfully took his hand away as he saw Sharon glance at their intertwined fingers. Without another word, he walked on shaky legs to the edge of the room and pulled the curtain shut as Stan spoke again, this time to his mother.

“He came back, Mom.”

“I know he did, sweetheart.”

Kyle made it all the way to the car before he finally vomited.

* * *

It was harder than Kyle imagined.

He knew it would be difficult, but he didn’t imagine that, in the midst of Stan’s recovery, Kyle found his past bitterness and anger boiling up inside him, the tension between him and Stan thickening, laced with old wounds as well as new ones. Kyle would argue with Jacob on the phone about when he was coming back—Jacob always asked when Kyle was coming _home_ , and Kyle always said he didn’t know, until one night when Kyle was especially exhausted and the image of Stan’s tired eyes wouldn’t leave his mind and he said, “ _Jacob, I’m already home. Give me a fucking break.”_

And he took out that anger on Stan. Stan, who was sick. Stan, who was suicidal. Stan, who was a drug addict. Kyle felt sick with guilt, then, when he thought those things; but then he thought of Stan, who abandoned him. Stan, who was cruel. Stan, who played with Kyle’s emotions without a second thought.

He took out his bitterness, his sadness, his pent-up rage. South Park was different. Randy’s absence was piercing. Kyle had made himself forget what a big part of his life Randy was—but for all Kyle’s big moments, all those life events, there was Randy, budging his way into it. Sharon was sadder. Shelley was—older. More responsible. Not so abusive.

Kyle gradually began to move back home. He sent for some of his things from Jacob’s apartment. They began calling it “Jacob’s apartment” very gradually as well; the breakup was inevitable, but it still hurt. Jacob yelled and Kyle cried, and then Jacob accused Kyle of still being in love with Stan, and Kyle cried harder. He wasn’t. He really wasn’t. But his love for Stan—the Stan that he once knew, the Stan that _had_ to be in there somewhere—was greater than it was for Jacob, and the need to be there for Stan outweighed his job, his new life, his everything. So Kyle took Stan to his group therapy, to the hospital for appointments, to his psychiatrist. He took Stan to lunch when Stan had a break and could leave the hospital.

Kyle even helped Sheila clean Stan’s apartment. When Kyle first arrived, he promptly bent over and threw up. The bathroom was covered in dried vomit and blood. Red tears dripped down the mirror, the sink, the bathtub—a needle lay by the couch, and empty beer bottles decorated the floor. The bedsheets were rumpled and stained with red. Kyle slowly made his way around the small studio, taking deep breaths, and then his eyes fell on a picture of Stan and Kyle from when they were kids—it was framed, propped up on a little bedside table, another needle lying next to it. Kyle threw up again.

The doctors told Stan he shouldn’t go back to his apartment. They told drug addicts to never return to the site where they did the most drugs. The psychiatrists told him not to return to sites of trauma. Kyle sat by Stan’s side when they told him this, and Stan’s eyes flickered with something that Kyle couldn’t quite place. He said, “I can’t go back to my apartment,” and the doctors nodded. Kyle just sat there, numb, wondering how many things had happened in that tiny studio apartment.

After six months, Kyle grew sick of his parents. He loved them, but he was nearly 25-years-old; he needed to leave. He thought of Stan, who would be getting out of rehab soon, and he took a deep breath, and he signed a lease on a small one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of South Park. When he went to visit Stan that day, he told him that Stan could stay with him when he got out, at least until he found a place of his own. Stan wanted to say no, but he couldn’t. He had nowhere else to go.

Slowly, Kyle watched the light return to Stan’s eyes. He wasn’t himself, not yet. He was still too thin and his eyes were too sunken. But he was getting closer. And this meant that they began to address what had been swept under the rug for the entire time Kyle was back in South Park. Kyle began to passive-aggressively blame Stan for leaving in the first place. Stan bluntly said that Kyle abandoned South Park and everyone in it. The boys fought, and it was almost normal, except that there was something much bigger coming.

Kyle moved Stan into his apartment with ease. He only had a few bags. He let Stan take the bed after hearing that Stan had been sleeping on his couch, and thought that perhaps a couch would be too closely connected to the drugs and whatever else had gone on. When Kyle asked why Stan slept on the couch, Stan just shrugged and said “bad memories on the bed.”

The first night Stan officially moved in, six months after Kyle had returned to South Park, Kyle made hamburgers. Stan came out of the bedroom just as Kyle was taking the patties off the stove, and he stood by the table nervously. All of a sudden, he opened his mouth and spoke, and Kyle nearly dropped the plate he was holding.

“I had sex with guys,” Stan said. His voice shook. “I haven’t been with a girl since freshman year of college. It was a guy who got me into all this. It’s a guy that I have a restraining order against now. That’s another reason my therapists wanted me out of my old apartment—he could find me there. He knew me there.”

“Oh, my god,” Kyle said hoarsely. Stan, who pushed Kyle away. Who was repulsed by him. Who freaked out when Kyle admitted how he felt about Stan.

“I didn’t want it. I mean, the guys—having—being with guys, I obviously wanted that. But that guy specifically. He wasn’t, like, a boyfriend. I didn’t really want him around.”

“You’re safe now, though, right?” Kyle asked. The thought of some—man—finding Stan…

“Yeah. I have a restraining order. He’ll probably get himself landed in jail soon, anyways. He’s like that.”

Kyle nodded. His head was swimming.

“You’re gay?” Kyle asked. He felt like screaming, breaking things, but he knew that this was Stan’s moment, and Stan was in trouble, and Stan needed him.

“I guess. No. I like girls, too. But I also like guys. Just not…him.”

“Okay,” Kyle said. He set the plate down. There was so much more he wanted to ask. How long did you know you were gay? Did you know back in high school? The summer after senior year, when I told you how I felt? During that fight in the parking lot outside Taco Bell? Kyle took a deep breath. This was a conversation for another time. The doctors told Kyle to not overwhelm Stan at first. “Dinner’s ready.”

They fought about it three weeks later. Kyle demanded to know why Stan seemed so repulsed by the thought of being with Kyle, if Stan was attracted to men. Stan told him that he didn’t know who he was, then. Kyle told Stan that he was an asshole for playing with Kyle like that. Stan told Kyle that he was young and he didn’t know any better, especially with Randy, and everything he used to say about gay people. Kyle asked Stan why he would always get so close to him, why he’d touch him so much, when he knew it was so cruel. Stan said that he didn’t know anything except that it felt good. They fought and fought and went around in circles, and finally Stan screamed at Kyle that he wasn’t good enough for Kyle, and Kyle stopped abruptly, seeing that Stan’s eyes were dangerously glassy. Stan didn’t do well when he ended up crying. He got embarrassed, and then angry, and then threw things.

The boys sat down on the kitchen floor, leaning against the cabinets, and caught their breath. Stan whispered out loud, his eyes tightly closed and his head against the cabinet, “The thought of being with you was so terrifying, I tried to pretend that I didn’t feel anything for any man.” And Kyle accepted that. Then Stan said, “You’re the only well put-together gay man I actually know. I obviously don’t have it down yet.” And Kyle laughed, and so did Stan. And they got back to their day-to-day routine, some of the tension eased, some of the conversation even lighter.

Then, two weeks later, they had another blowout about the other subject they’d left untouched for almost eight months now. Kyle leaving. Kyle yelled until he found himself winded, talking and talking about how much it hurt to stay in South Park, around Cartman, who’d tortured him for years, and around Stan, who he was so in love with that he couldn’t think straight anymore. Stan yelled right back that Kyle should have told him outright, and they could have talked, instead of leaving Stan to interpret his feelings. Kyle told Stan how cruel he was back then, and how Kyle couldn’t even stand the sight of him. Stan told Kyle that whenever they were together, he couldn’t help but wonder whether something more would happen between them, and the only thing to smother that terror was acting the way he acted. This argument lasted a few days. Finally, they came to an unspoken understanding—they were young. They were stupid. That would have to be good enough.

* * *

After four months of living together—about a year after Stan’s attempt to kill himself, and six months after Stan got out of rehab—Stan came home and told Kyle that he had run into Butters earlier that day, and he would be coming over for dinner tomorrow. Kyle bought ingredients to make pasta and garlic bread. When Butters knocked on their door, Stan bounded to the door, surprising Kyle. When Butters was in sight, Stan wrapped his arms around him, and Butters buried his face in Stan’s neck, grinning brilliantly. Kyle just watched them, Butters’ glittering eyes not unnoticed when he pulled away from Stan. The three of them ate and talked about Butters’ job, about his new life in Colorado Springs, about his new cat. Finally, after a few glasses of wine each, Butters turned to Kyle.

“We all really missed you.”

“I know.”

“Are you here to stay?”

Kyle looked at Stan, looking more and more healthy with every passing day, sitting there in his blue sweater. He said truthfully, thoughtfully, “I don’t know.”

“Stan saved my life, Kyle,” Butters suddenly said, and Stan groaned.

“Stop,” Stan said, “It was nothing. You don’t have to talk about it.”

“He needs to know! I know you fellas haven’t talked much these past years, and I know he knows—well, he knows some stuff, but Stan, you never tell people the good stuff.”

Kyle looked at Stan, who looked down at his plate. His cheeks were rosy. His eyes weren’t so sunken and dark. He looked so good in that blue sweater, and the haircut he’d gotten last week made him look so much older. He glanced up at Kyle with those big blue eyes of his.

“He saved you?” Kyle asked. He didn’t know that Stan was in any shape to save anyone.

“You betcha,” Butters said, grasping Stan’s wrist. “It was a few years ago—right after you left for the second time.” Kyle winced. That was when Stan started getting really bad. “Stan here, he was off with his new buddies a lot, we didn’t see much of him. But he saw me every once in a while, and, well, things were getting real bad with my parents. It had gotten to the point where they kept me home from school, they put bars on my window. My dad had been getting real violent. Stan saw what was happening and he saved me.”

“Butters, I had no idea,” Kyle said, but Butters kept talking, and Kyle’s stomach rose to his throat.

“Stan kept trying to talk to my parents, and talk to my professors to explain my absences, but you know, I was an adult—what could anyone do?” Butters looked at Stan with adoration Kyle had never seen before. “One day, my dad had kicked me out of the house. It was real cold and I had nowhere to go. I was freezing—almost dead when Stan found me. He took me back to his place—this real nice apartment—and let me stay there. Then, he helped me get a court case against my parents, and a restraining order—the injuries were more than enough for the judge to believe me. They now can’t come within 1000 feet of me.”

“Butters—”

“And then—Kyle, get this—he got me a new apartment, where I could live while I finished up school. Paid rent and everything. Even moved into this run-down little studio apartment so he had enough money to pay for both. Oh geez, Stan, I hope you didn’t stay there too long!” Butters laughed. “That place was such a mess. But you kept saying that it was more than okay, as long as you knew I was safe.” Butters quickly wiped a hand underneath his eye and looked back at Kyle. “I can see why you love him so much, Kyle. There’s really no one like Stan, is there?”

Kyle couldn’t speak. His throat was tight. He stared at Stan—beautiful, healthy Stan who was working so hard with his doctors and his therapists to get better—and felt his eyes prickle with heat. He knew that that was the year Randy died. The year Stan got involved with drugs. The year Stan met the man he now has a restraining order against. He put his entire life at risk to save Butters’.

Just as Kyle was about to speak, Butters looked at his watch and informed the boys that he should get going. Kyle silently followed Stan and Butters to the door as they made small talk so easily and casually, as if the entire world hadn’t shaken just a few seconds ago. He watched Stan cross his arms and lean against the wall as Butters put on his shoes and jacket. Stan looked so grown up. He looked so much better. It was ten months ago that Stan tried to kill himself—four months since he got out of therapy. The doctors and psychiatrists told Kyle that the first year would be the hardest, and so far, they were right. There were many nights of fighting; and many more nights of Stan being woken up with night terrors, sweating and shaking, and ending up on the bathroom floor begging Kyle to let him have just one hit, anything, just to calm him down. Kyle would join Stan on the bathroom floor, exhausted and weak, and gather the man up in his arms and rock until Stan calmed down again. Stan always apologized the next morning. Kyle always smiled and said that he was better than the last time, which was always true, even if it felt hopeless sometimes.

Butters turned to give Kyle a hug, and then Stan. Their hug was sweet—almost intimate. Stan patted Butters’ shoulder a few times as he turned to leave, and when the door shut, the air was tight. Kyle finally forced words—or at least, a word—to come out of his mouth.

“Stan.”

“It was nothing,” Stan immediately said, looking embarrassed, and Kyle shook his head.

“Stan,” He said, taking a step closer. “You saved him.”

“No.”

“Yes,” Kyle had to laugh. He grabbed Stan’s arms, trying to ignore the twist in his stomach that always happened when he touched Stan. Stan’s hands came up to rest on Kyle’s waist. Stan did this sometimes—it was like Kyle was a raft, and Stan was drowning, and he held on for dear life. “You saved him. He loves you. Your therapist is always telling you to give yourself more credit, right? Well, you can give yourself credit for this one.”

“They were so cruel to him, I couldn’t take it. And he kept going back.”

“You’re cruel to yourself, Stan. Maybe if you saw that, like you saw how Butters’ parents were cruel to him, you’d save yourself, too.”

Stan hummed, like he was actually giving it some thought. His hands tightened on Kyle’s waist.

“I’m trying to get better,” He whispered, sounding so cut open and vulnerable. Kyle nodded, knowing that Stan was thinking of a few weeks ago, when he begged Kyle to let him smoke just one joint. Kyle had yelled. Stan had thrown things. “I’m trying so fucking hard.”

“I know. And you’re doing so well. Think of where you were a year ago,” Kyle said, and Stan closed his eyes. “And look at where you are now. And it’s all you, Stan.”

“And you,” Stan laughed, “Are you kidding? You think I’d be here if you didn’t come back?” He immediately shook his head, the smile dropping. “I don’t—I don’t mean to make you feel guilty. Or like you have to stay. I know you have a life, now, and it’s definitely not this. So—I’m sorry. Forget I said that.”

“Right now, my life is this,” Kyle said, and it was true. “My life was in South Park, and then DC, and now South Park again. Let’s just see where it goes next, okay?”

“Okay,” Stan whispered, and when he opened his eyes, they were filled with tears. Kyle had, at some point, looped his arms around Stan’s neck, so that they were standing with their hips nearly pressed together. Kyle wasn’t a life raft anymore—he was something else entirely, and so was Stan. The air had changed. Kyle’s heart was pounding. He studied Stan’s face, so open and raw and pleading; so completely handsome and hardened and sweet, underneath it all. They’d been so…normal lately. Their big fights were behind them. They bickered and laughed about stupid things, they watched movies together, they took walks and made small talk and sat together in silence while reading books and watching TV. And now here Stan was, all wrapped up in Kyle, something so clear written across his face.

Kyle was immediately struck with the thought that he hadn’t had sex in a year. He was so busy, helping Stan and figuring out a new job and starting all over in South Park that he’d barely thought of it. But at times like this—when he was standing way too close to Stan and Stan smelled so good and looked so healthy—Kyle couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like if he closed the short distance between them. Just like that, he had the one-track mind of his 16-year-old self again, but it was somehow incredibly different this time around.

And then Kyle thought about what the therapist said. Twelve months. Let Stan adjust for twelve months. Let him find himself again, let him move past the trauma. Relationships were hard in the first year, they had said—they were a lot of responsibility that might be too much stress for Stan to handle. Kyle looked at Stan’s lips, red and slightly parted, and closed his eyes.

“We should get some sleep,” He said softly, and he felt Stan let out a long breath.

“Okay,” Stan said, and slowly let go of Kyle. Kyle always held on until Stan let go. Stan took a step back and studied Kyle for a moment. “It was good seeing Butters again.”

“Yeah,” Kyle smiled, “It was. It’s good being…this.”

“Yeah.”

“Night, Stan.”

“Night, Kyle.”

Kyle went to sleep feeling happier than he had in a long time.

He woke up five hours later to the sound of Stan screaming, and as he wrapped himself around Stan, who was just beginning to wake up from a nightmare, he wondered what exactly “this” was going to be.

* * *

 

A month later, Stan’s therapy sessions started to decrease, leaving him with enough time to look for a job. This brought a new onset of problems; Stan would get angry quickly, growing defensive at the smallest comment, and Kyle learned how to take a deep breath and not fight back. He talked to Stan’s therapist, who said that Stan’s self-worth had been destroyed by many factors over the years, and looking for a job would be extremely difficult. So Kyle promised to stand by Stan’s side, no matter what insult Stan hurled at him, daring Kyle to leave again.

It brought good things, too. When Kyle got home from work, he and Stan sat at their kitchen table and Kyle helped Stan update his resume and apply at every place he found. He’d begun taking online classes to complete his degree, with a plan to return to college next year and officially graduate. Stan’s eyes brightened with the prospect of a future, and Kyle felt a lump in his throat when he realized that Stan never used to think about his future because he never saw himself living longer than a few more years.

Kyle loved seeing Stan like this. Bright and chatty and determined. Coming home from work to Stan was possibly the greatest thing Kyle ever experienced; being able to sit down with Stan after a long day and laugh at stupid things, and tell stupid jokes. They settled into a new routine, so very different from their childhood, but so very similar at the same time. They still called each other “dude” and laughed at the same things—but there was something more, something deeper, that Kyle saw whenever he looked at Stan looking back at Kyle. There was something more profound. There was something raw and vulnerable yet unbreakable.

It was early in the evening on a Saturday, and the boys spent it lazing around the apartment. Stan spent most of the day on the edge of his seat, though, wanting to tell Kyle something. Kyle could tell by the way Stan always opened his mouth to say something profound, but at the last second, changed his mind and said something like “Do we have any Pop-Tarts left?” Kyle didn’t ask. About a month ago, Kyle tried asking about the guy that got Stan hooked. He was losing sleep over the fact that he didn’t know anything about the guy. He didn’t know the extent of what he did to Stan. He didn’t know how it started. He didn’t know how it ended. And every time Kyle looked at Stan, there was an ever-present knot in his stomach that tightened with the thought of what he’d been through at the hands of that man. So he asked, and it resulted in Stan having a meltdown, a tantrum, basically, complete with throwing things and slamming doors. Kyle didn’t ask again. And he didn’t ask now, even as Stan watched Kyle expectantly, almost waiting for his friend to open the door to a conversation.

It was nearing dinner time, and Kyle didn’t want to cook. He got up from the couch he and Stan were slumped on watching TV, and made his way to the kitchen. He looked through the refrigerator for a bit before asking, “Do you just want to order in pizza tonight? Snow is looking pretty bad out there.”

“Kyle, I don’t want to fight.”

Kyle turned on his heel. Stan was sitting upright on the couch, hands pressed together between his knees. His eyes stayed fixed on his feet.

“Okay—about what?” Kyle asked, trying to mask his own uncertainty and fear of what might come next. Stan took a breath.

“I just—I need to ask you something, and I feel like we’ve gotten past all our shit, you know? We’ve worked through it, but before we do, we always have a huge fight. And I…I don’t think I have the energy for that today. But there’s just one more thing I need to ask you. And I don’t want to fight. I’m not mad, Kyle, I swear, I just need to ask it.”

“Yeah, anything. You can ask me anything.”

“I’m not trying to start a fight.”

“Stan…” Kyle felt a lump in his throat unexpectedly. He didn’t even think about how severely their fights must have fucked up Stan even more so. They were conversations they needed to have, and they cut Kyle up in all kinds of ways, but Stan…it was as though he’d run a marathon after every argument. He was exhausted. Empty.

“Ask it. If I feel my temper getting in the way, we’ll pause, and we’ll pick it up tomorrow. No big deal.”

“Yeah?” Stan finally met Kyle’s eyes, and Kyle smiled widely. He didn’t have to force his smiles anymore for Stan’s sake, not like at the beginning. Just looking at Stan made Kyle feel lighter.

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. And then:

“Why didn’t you come back for his funeral?”

Not what Kyle expected. With the changing air between the boys, and Kyle’s constant preoccupation with the guy Stan was involved with, Kyle swore that Stan would say something about being gay, or Kyle being gay. But Stan just looked at Kyle patiently, albeit worriedly, while Kyle nodded, taking it in. He walked a few steps towards the couch and sat down on his heels on the carpet, the coffee table between them.

“That was right after our fight in the parking lot.”

Stan closed his eyes tightly. “I know.”

“It was…a few months after that? Four months, maybe?”

“Three and a half.”

“It took me nearly a year to stop replaying that fight in my head.”

“I know.” Stan put his hands over his face and rubbed his forehead. His voice was muffled when he spoke. “I called you a faggot.”

“Yeah.” Kyle’s voice caught. “I told you that you were useless.”

“Jesus, dude, that doesn’t even matter. Besides, you were right. And that’s nothing compared to what I said to you.”

“It does matter, and I wasn’t right,” Kyle said, voice rising not in anger but in panic. Every time Stan said something like that, Kyle couldn’t help but picture Stan, bloody and in a hospital bed, close to death. He tried to clear his throat, to rid the lump in his throat, but before he could speak again, Stan cut him off.

“I was so cruel to you. I was so scared, and I was starting to realize that part of the reason I was so angry that you left was because I wanted you so badly. Like, really, really _wanted_ you. It freaked me out. And I’m not making excuses, because what I called you was—it was—” Stan took a deep, rattling breath, and dropped his hands from his face. They were red, but he wasn’t crying.

“That was when I accepted that it was really over with us. Whatever we were. Our friendship. When I didn’t see you at the funeral. Even after our fight, part of me thought we would somehow fix it…part of me thought you’d come back to South Park and everything would be fine. And then you weren’t there, and when I asked Ike about you and he said you were moving to DC with your boyfriend…that’s when I knew it was over. And I deserved that. I deserved everything that happened. But I just—Kyle—why didn’t you come? You wouldn’t even have had to talk to me. I would’ve stayed away from you, if you wanted. I know that my dad said a lot of shit about gay people, but he was an idiot. We both knew that. I thought you’d be there for him. For my mom, maybe. You could’ve come for anyone but me, but you weren’t there.” Stan’s hands were covering his face again. “I don’t want to fight. Walk away right now if you want to, I’m sorry I brought this up. We can talk about it later. I don’t—”

“Stan,” Kyle finally interrupted, “I regret missing Randy’s funeral every day of my life.” Stan shook his head into his big hands. “You’re right. The things you said to me were awful. And at three and a half months, I wasn’t ready to forgive you. But Stan…” Kyle waited until Stan looked at him, bloodshot eyes and snotty nose and everything. “I should have been there. Even if I wasn’t done being angry with you. Even if I was still hurting. I should have been there.”

“But you weren’t,” Stan burst, “And I watched them put my dad in the ground with Kenny and Cartman by my side, and my mom was still mad at him – fuck, the divorce wasn’t even finalized – and the entire time they were laying flowers on Dad’s grave, I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I ruined everything between us. I fucked everything up. I lost everything, and it was my own _fucking fault!”_

Stan suddenly started clawing at his right forearm—where the scars were especially bad—violently. He let out a sound somewhere between a scream and a snarl and curled in on himself, hand working furiously to tear up his skin. Kyle immediately sprang up from where he was seated and grabbed for Stan, who slid off the couch and onto the floor to get away from Kyle, kicking the coffee table over. Kyle grabbed again, one arm scooping up Stan’s left arm to Stan’s chest and holding it there, and the other arm going to Stan’s increasingly reddened arm, resting his hand on the scars. He pulled Stan into his chest and sat back to lean against the couch while Stan tried to break free.

After a few minutes, Stan’s grip slackened and he slumped back into Kyle. Kyle stroked Stan’s forearm with his thumb. They were quiet, until Stan finally spoke.

“Jesus. Yikes.”

Kyle laughed. Stan joined him. They laughed until they cried, and when Stan turned his head to wipe his tears of laughter on Kyle’s shoulder, Kyle cried even harder. After a few more minutes of inappropriate laughter, Kyle released Stan so they could wipe at their eyes. Stan turned so he sat cross-legged in front of Kyle. The coffee table remained overturned on the carpet.

“Well, I’ll have a lot to tell my therapist tomorrow.”

Kyle laughed again. Then he turned serious. He waited until Stan met his eyes before he spoke.

“I didn’t go because I was hurt. And I wanted to hurt you like you hurt me.”

Stan nodded. Kyle nodded.

“But I should have been there. And I am so, so, so sorry for that.”

“I’m sorry for…everything. All of it. And you’re not a faggot.”

“Well,” Kyle grinned, and Stan stood up, shoving Kyle over with a laugh. He walked to the kitchen and absent-mindedly looked in the refrigerator for a while.

“Hey Kyle, do you just want to order in pizza tonight?”

* * *

 

Stan ended up with an assistant job at an office; he said it was a glorified secretarial position, but Kyle threw his arms around Stan and squeezed him so tightly that Stan’s breath left him entirely, and he squeezed back, every surface of their bodies touching. They stayed in that moment for a very long time. Neither wanted to address what would happen when Stan got enough money to live on his own.

The first day of work, Stan had a breakdown when he came home. He set his bag down in the doorway and his knees immediately hit the floor. His entire body shook. Kyle was immediately on his knees next to him, hands hovering, not sure whether he should touch. So he just asked and asked, “What happened? What happened?” Until Stan finally gasped out:

“My coworker wears the same cologne as him.”

And then he turned and emptied the contents of his stomach, and Kyle felt his heart sink.

He needed to ask Stan about The Guy. Stan wasn’t getting any better when it came to him.

Kyle rushed to the stove when he smelled the chicken burning and turned it off. He grabbed a towel and threw it over the mess next to Stan before taking a seat again by the door, legs crossed, body facing his friend. They stayed like that for a long time while Stan closed his eyes and breathed. Finally, Kyle blurted out, “How was work other than that?” And Stan let out a shout of laughter. They ordered pizza and Stan called his therapist and Stan informed Kyle that he would still be going to work there. Kyle asked Stan if he wanted to watch a bad horror movie. Stan said yes, so they did.

It went on like that for some time. They were, dare Kyle even _think_ it: happy. Stan made crass jokes and laughed in that way that turned his cheeks pink. Kyle felt his old sarcastic, snarky self rearing back to life. And on top of that all, a promise of more. Stan made sure to stay away from Kyle in terms of anything physical. He’d told Kyle multiple times that he felt guilty for toying with him like that in high school—all the extra touches, all the closeness, knowing that Kyle wanted more and Stan was just experimenting. So Kyle was the one who made the first moves this time. He touched Stan’s back when he passed him in the kitchen. He lay his legs across Stan’s lap when he lay on the couch watching TV. He hugged Stan constantly. He gave Stan suggestive looks, dropped sexual innuendos to make Stan laugh, winked at inappropriate times—everything he did, whether it was a touch or a joke or an innocent pickup line, he poured in all the love that Stan didn’t feel for himself. And Stan gave it all back to Kyle.

It was a shame neither of them knew how to act on it. Two 26-year-old men, nearly 27, and they had no idea how to tell the other that they liked him.

A year and a half after Stan tried to kill himself—one year after Stan got out of rehab—Kyle was faced with his greatest fear when he woke up in the middle of the night and Stan was nowhere to be found. Kyle didn’t know why he woke up at two in the morning, or why he immediately went to the bedroom to look for Stan. It was like a part of him knew, even after all these years, when Stan was gone; it was like there was a string that tied them together, and the string was being tugged, and Kyle had no choice but to follow it, his breath becoming more rapid with every step. Not the bedroom or bathroom or kitchen. Not the hallway or the elevator or the staircase. Kyle immediately racked his brain, looking for some sort of explanation. Stan “got bad” (a phrase they coined to describe Stan’s worst meltdowns) on the anniversary of his suicide attempt and on the anniversary of his dad’s death. Those were the two dates they knew to watch out for. Neither of them was today. Kyle rushed outside in his sleep pants and oversized T-shirt, not bothering with shoes, his bare feet freezing in the chilly spring air. His mind raced. Where did people in South Park buy drugs? He used to know. Everyone did. It wasn’t that big of a town.

Kyle’s feet carried him, leaving Kyle free to sink into his thoughts. The alley behind Whole Foods. The park next to China House. Kyle was so wrapped up in his mind that he almost didn’t hear the wheeze that came from the alley just a few buildings down from their apartment. Kyle’s breath caught in his throat as he turned sharply and raced through the dark crevice, repeating under his breath like a prayer, “Stan, Stan, Stan, Stan.”

“Kyle.”

The prayer was answered and Kyle dropped to his knees. Stan sat against the alley wall, blue eyes rimmed with red, breathing harshly. His hands shook violently, and Kyle’s hands were immediately all over Stan’s chest, his arms, his blue lips—and then, when Kyle’s hands passed over Stan’s, he felt something. Stan let go as soon as Kyle roughly fumbled with whatever he was holding. They were both trembling now, and the bag fell to the ground in between them. Kyle stared at it and felt fear rise to his throat.

“Stan,” He said, cupping Stan’s face and forcing Stan to look at him. “Stan, did you take any?”

Stan just looked at him. A strangled noise escaped Kyle’s lips.

“Stan, you took some? Stan, look at me. Oh my god, dude, look at me, come on, please. Stan. Stan!”

“I’m really fucking cold,” Stan rasped.

“Stan,” Kyle said, praying again as he shuffled closer to Stan’s face, hands tightening. “Stan, did you take any? Jesus, dude, you’ve gotta tell me.”

“Can we go upstairs?”

“Stan, Stan, come on! Come _on,_ just tell me!” Kyle begged, and when a full body shudder passed through Stan, Kyle shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Stan was freezing. He had no idea how long he’d been out here. Stan wanted to go back to the apartment.

Kyle picked up the bag and stuffed it in his pocket, then looped his arms under Stan’s armpits and lifted. Stan was at his normal weight, if not just a bit lighter. Kyle didn’t want Stan to go back to the stick-thin man that he was eighteen months ago. The one Kyle could pick up like it was nothing.

“I can walk,” Stan said, and Kyle let go of him. It felt weird not to hold onto him as they made the short walk back to their building. Halfway up the stairs, Stan paused and bent over, breathing heavily. Kyle automatically went to take Stan’s arm and loop it around his shoulder, but stopped abruptly. He remembered Stan’s therapist telling Kyle that when Stan was in the middle of an episode, it would be best to ask permission to touch him. Kyle originally thought nothing of it—just normal, recovering drug addict type stuff. Only now did the sickening thought hit Kyle—maybe Stan had been touched when he didn’t want to be.

“Can I help you?” Kyle asked, hands hovering. Stan nodded. Kyle helped him until they were back in the apartment. Kyle immediately brought him to the bathroom and turned on the shower, and Stan collapsed against the door, his eyes closed.

“Are you feeling sick? Nauseous? Dizzy?”

Stan didn’t open his eyes. Just sat there, breathing softly.

“Can I take off your shirt? You need to warm up, take a hot shower.”

Stan nodded, but when Kyle’s fingers skimmed Stan’s skin underneath the hem of his T-shirt, Stan’s hands shot down and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly.

“I don’t want to,” He said, and Kyle shook his head.

“You need to get in the shower, you told me I could take your shirt off.”

Kyle tried again and Stan’s hands squeezed Kyle’s fingers hard and he said “I don’t want to! Please! I don’t want to!”

“Stan!” Kyle cried, trying to break away from Stan’s iron grip. “Stan! Let go! I won’t touch you, just let me go!”

Stan let go.

And then he opened his eyes.

“Jesus. Jesus, Kyle, I’m so sorry.” Kyle watched closely as reality seeped back into Stan’s bones. He ran a hand through his hair. “Forgot where I was for a second. I’m fucking freezing.”

“Stan.” Kyle let his hands fall to his sides helplessly. “You need to warm up. Please, just take a shower. You’ll feel so much better.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Can you…are you okay if I leave?”

“Unless you really want to stay and watch,” Stan huffed, and Kyle smiled weakly.

“I’ll be right outside.”

“Just go to bed. I’m sorry to have woken you up.”

“Yeah, that’s not gonna happen,” Kyle tried to joke, but Stan just closed his eyes and shook his head.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. Just go take a shower.”

Kyle leaves the bathroom and sits on the living room couch. He drops his head into his hands, exhausted. It’s got to be around 3:00 in the morning. They’ve got work in four hours. Kyle wonders what they’ll do for dinner tonight. Stan usually goes to the gym on Tuesdays and doesn’t get home until later, and he’s always starving afterwards. They hadn’t gone grocery shopping in what feels like ages, living off of Chinese takeout and pizza. Kyle shifts in his spot and freezes when he hears his pocket crinkle.

The drugs.

The drugs in his pocket that Stan may have taken. Jesus, how could he have forgotten? Was he that exhausted? Kyle racked his brain. Stan’s eyes were closed when they sat on the bathroom floor, and he could barely see them when they were outside. Did he look high? Was he slurring his words? Was he so weak because he was cold and exhausted, or did he take something? Kyle felt panic rise in his throat. If Stan had taken something, Kyle wouldn’t be thinking about groceries or the gym or going to work. Their entire life together would change. Stan would have to go back to rehab, or at least, have to go to so many therapists that he wouldn’t have time for his job again. Would he go through withdrawal? Does that happen after one night of taking drugs? Kyle got up and walked to his room, grabbing his phone and unlocking it to call—who? Stan’s therapist? The rehab place? Kyle was at a loss. He wandered back into the living room, staring blankly at his phone before finally dropping back onto the couch helplessly.

“I didn’t take anything.”

Kyle looked up sharply. Stan stood in the doorway of the living room, a towel around his waist. Kyle let out the breath he didn’t even know he was holding.

“What?” He needed Stan to say it again. Ten more times. A hundred, maybe, before Kyle could finally breathe normally again.

“I didn’t take anything. I bought it from a guy I didn’t even know that well. I just knew where to find him. And then I just sat there. I didn’t take any.”

“Oh, thank god. Stan, thank god.” Kyle leaned back against the couch, closing his eyes. Stan didn’t take any. Stan was still sober. All his hard work, everything the two of them worked toward…

“I would have, though.”

“Not true,” Kyle said, sitting back up. Jesus, he was tired. Every part of his body was aching. He wanted to grab Stan, pour into him everything that Stan didn’t give himself—love, hope, pride, everything. Stan was looking at the floor, at the little wet spot on the carpet formed by his dripping hair.

“Stan, think about it.” Logic. It was always the way to make Stan understand. He was such an emotional person, logic seemed to be the only thing that got through to him during times like this. “If you were going to do it, you would have done it long before I showed up. If you would have done it—hell, you would have done it! But you didn’t.”

“I would have if you didn’t come and save my loser drug addict ass,” Stan muttered.

“I don’t believe that. Seriously,” Kyle added when Stan looked up at him, disbelieving. “I think that if I didn’t find you when I did…if I didn’t find you until the morning, even, I think that you still wouldn’t have done it.”

“I—” Stan made a choked noise and shook his head. “It was a hard night.”

“I know.” But Kyle didn’t know. “It was a hard night, but even so, you didn’t go back to that.”

“Every time I think I’m getting better, something sends me right back. It’s like, no matter how hard I try, I just can’t fix it.”

“Stan,” Kyle said softly. “Listen to me. You’re getting better. You’re working so hard, and you’re getting so much better. Think of where you used to be, and look at where you are now. You have a job. And an apartment. And you’re sober and clean. You’re…alive. Finally. You’re alive.”

“Only because of you. I couldn’t do any of that on my own. What if you decide to leave, you know? You need to get back to DC, you need to get back to your life. What happens when I’m on my own?”

“Stan—” Kyle let out a huff of air. “Are you serious? Have you been thinking that I’m just buying time until I go to DC?”

“No,” Stan said immediately, backtracking. “I think it’s good that you came back home. And that we cleared all our shit up. But you’re going to want to leave again, right? Once you think I’m healthy enough to be on my own?”

“Stan.” Kyle laughed in disbelief. Stan watched him closely, trying desperately to read him. “Believe it or not, I’m not here because I enjoy babysitting. I’m not here because I pity you, or feel guilty, or whatever. And you know what? You are healthy enough to live on your own. Sure, it’d probably be harder, but you could do it. I don’t doubt that. I’m not here because I feel like it’s my duty to save you.”

“Okay,” Stan said, like he had no choice but to believe Kyle. “Sorry.”

“Do you want to know why I’m here?” Kyle asked, smiling slightly. “I’m here because I like drinking my coffee and reading the news while you sit across the table from me glaring, because you’re the grumpiest morning person I’ve ever met. I like my job. I like coming home from my job and seeing you. I like going to trivia on Wednesdays with you, and being the best trivia team there, even though I basically carry your ass straight to the top.” Stan grinned at that, rolling his eyes. “I like arguing about stupid shit like what to have for dinner, and whose turn it is to do the dishes. I like being with you, dude.” Kyle left out the part about how much he liked dropping innuendos in Stan’s direction, and how his stomach flipped whenever Stan winked at him or touched him longer than he needed to.

“You must have the bar set pretty low, if life with me is that enjoyable.”

“I guess so.”

The boys laughed. Kyle looked Stan up and down.

“You’ve really been hitting the gym, haven’t you? God damn.”

Stan grinned, like Kyle was making a joke, but like many of Kyle’s harmless innuendos and flirtatious lines, there was a level of truth to them. Stan looked good. Nearly back to his original weight, and all muscle on top. Kyle often wondered what it would be like to have Stan above him, propping himself up with those arms, chiseled chest heaving. He wondered what it would feel like to have Stan’s lips, finally red again, finally smiling, wrapped around his cock.

“I guess,” Stan said, looking down, heat rising in his cheeks. He was embarrassed. He was nervous. It was fucking adorable. And suddenly Kyle felt the air between them change, just like he had in previous months, into something more. Something exciting and tense and new. Kyle stood up and brushed past Stan, emptying the bag in his pocket into the toilet and flushing. He tossed the bag in the garbage can and turned around. Stan watched him through the doorway.

“All gone,” Kyle said, brushing his hands off and showing them to Stan childishly. Stan smirked and rolled his eyes for a second time that night.

“I think it’s probably time for bed,” Kyle said, but his voice came out much softer and hoarser than he intended. Stan nodded, eyes glued to Kyle’s. Kyle took a step forward, but Stan remained where he was, blocking the doorway.

“You’re really happy here?” Stan asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Kyle whispered, and there he went again, flirting, standing much too close to Stan, who was much too naked underneath that towel. “Who wouldn’t be happy with this view?”

They were so close. One push, and Kyle could kiss him. He smelled like mint—he must have brushed his teeth after his shower. When Stan closed his eyes, Kyle took a deep breath in. It was happening. There was no way that it wasn’t happening. Kyle reached out cautiously, his hands hovering over Stan’s towel, which sat low on his hips. Stan didn’t move, his eyes closed, his breath coming a little faster. A few more inches, and Kyle could grab Stan’s towel and pull his friend closer, he could press their lips together and their hips would touch and maybe Stan would be half-hard just like Kyle was—

And then Kyle jerked back with the memory of Stan grabbing his fingers when Kyle tried to take off his shirt.

And then Kyle stepped back with the memory of Stan pleading _I don’t want to_ when Kyle tried again.

Stan had said it was a hard night. And Kyle had no idea why. And if touching Stan might fuck him up, then Kyle would keep his hands to himself as long as he needed to, even if he did explode from the restraint.

“We should get to sleep, hot shot,” Kyle said weakly. Stan opened his eyes and his face formed an expression of—disappointment? Relief? Maybe both.

“Yeah. We’ve got work in—Jesus, three hours,” Stan said, glancing at the oven clock behind him. He looked back at Kyle. “Thank you. I can’t remember if I said that. Sorry again, for, you know…being really high maintenance.”

And Kyle couldn’t help it. Maybe he couldn’t kiss him, not yet, but god damnit, he could hug him. Kyle practically threw himself at Stan, wrapping his arms around the taller boy’s neck and tucking his chin on top of Stan’s shoulder. He felt Stan respond immediately, closing his arms around Kyle’s waist and pulling him even closer, squeezing even tighter. He buried his head in the juncture of Kyle’s neck and shoulder and inhaled. Kyle wanted to cry, it was so perfect—the way they fit together, the way their bodies already knew each other. He imagined what it would be like the first time Stan moved inside of him, how they’d rock together—would it be fast or slow? Would it be gentle or rough? And just like that, Kyle had to pull away. Pajama pants only concealed so much.

"Okay, I’m fucking tired. I’m going to bed.”

“Okay, yeah. Me, too.”

“Goodnight, Stan.”

“Night, Kyle.”

Neither of them slept that night.

* * *

 

It was all building up to something. It had to be. Ever since that night—ever since junior high, realistically—Kyle couldn’t stop thinking about it. Anything could trigger it—Stan coming home from the gym, sweat soaking through his tank top. Stan looking particularly good in a red sweater and jeans he’d just bought. Stan’s shoulder pressing against Kyle’s when they played video games. Stan. Stan. Stan. And Kyle knew that Stan felt it too. It wasn’t like it used to be, back when they were kids and they didn’t know what they were supposed to be feeling. When the room fell silent and Stan looked at Kyle, there was something there that both men wanted so desperately to talk about, but never could. Stan looked at Kyle like he used to look at the hottest girls in high school, and Kyle couldn’t decide if he loved or hated it. Probably both.

But then Kyle would think of that night—of Stan’s panic when Kyle tried to take off his shirt—and it was like a bucket of ice water had been dumped on the redhead. Whatever “it” was building up to couldn’t happen. Not when there was a part of Stan’s life without Kyle that was completely missing from Kyle’s knowledge. After two years, it was the one missing piece, and all that was left was to wait around until Stan decided to talk about it.

On a Thursday evening in the fall—nearly two years after Kyle came back to South Park—Stan came home from therapy with a look of hard determination in his eyes. Kyle lay on the couch reading and glanced up to say hello to Stan, as he always did, and stopped short. Stan took off his blue beanie and tossed it to the floor next to where their shoes lay. It drove Kyle nuts when Stan did that. They had a hat rack literally right there. Kyle watched the hat fall and then looked back up at Stan, whose cheeks were red from the cold. He unzipped his jacket slowly, and, thank god, put it on the coat rack. Kyle’s eyes followed Stan as he toed off his shoes and walked to the opposite side of the coffee table and sat on his heels. It reminded Kyle of a previous “Big Talk” that they’d had.

He was wearing that goddamn red sweater.

“Stan,” Kyle said, sitting up, because he knew that Stan was waiting for him to open the door. “Do you want to talk about something?”

Stan nodded. He took a breath.

This was it. Jesus. Kyle wasn’t prepared for this. After so long of avoiding the topic, avoiding that missing piece, he’d gotten used to the fact that Stan might never want to talk about it. And now his head was rushing—what was so major that Stan couldn’t even speak about it until now? Why did Stan refuse to talk about this one thing with Kyle? If he talked about it with his therapist, how come he couldn’t say it now? The most petrifying part was that Kyle thought he already might know the answer.

“I feel like you kind of already know what I’m going to say. But my therapist told me that if I want—if we want any sort of—I don’t know how to say it. I do, but I don’t. Basically, she told me that if you’re gonna be in my life for a long time, you should probably know about it.”

“Okay,” Kyle said, his stomach turning. “Lay it on me.” Then he wanted to punch himself for saying something so casual. But Stan didn’t seem to notice.

“You know the guy that I have the restraining order against?” Stan asked. Like Kyle could forget that small detail. Kyle nodded, not trusting himself to speak. “He was the one who got me hooked on…everything, I guess. I met him a month after Dad’s funeral. He was hanging out outside the liquor store. I was already getting drunk every night. I think I was drunk when I met him, I can’t remember. His name was Ben. Is Ben.”

Kyle resisted the urge to close his eyes. His stomach already hurt at the thought of Stan getting wasted every night, not even remembering the day to day details. Stan looked at his shaking hands and pressed them harder onto his thighs before continuing.

“He saw that I was picking up a lot of alcohol and invited me to this party. He said he would drive. And I walked to the liquor store, and it was freezing, so I mostly just accepted so I could warm up a bit. He said he just moved to South Park and his buddy’s place was just outside of town. He was pretty cool. We got along. I guess I was easy to get along with, though, if I was already smashed.” Stan shook his head. It looked like he was trying to shake thoughts away. Kyle just kept nodding, wishing the story would move along faster, because Kyle was going insane. He thought he might throw up just waiting to hear the bad stuff.

“It was a pretty normal party. Drinking games, tons of booze, all that shit. And I drank way more than I should have—I’d already been drinking—and I stayed after a lot of the people went home. It was just me and Ben and two other guys in the basement. And one of them got out all this shit and started shooting up. I didn’t even realize it was happening until the second guy was shooting up. Ben offered it to me next, but I said no; I was wasted, I already felt sick. Ben just shrugged it off and he didn’t take anything either. It was fine. The two other guys got high off their asses, but Ben and I just talked. I don’t really remember that part. We just talked. And then the two other guys went upstairs, and it was just the two of us.” Stan paused, clearing his throat. “I remember my phone kept buzzing and buzzing and buzzing. And it was my mom. And I kept thinking that I should tell her where I am, and that I’m okay—but I didn’t want to talk to her while I was so drunk. So I just let the phone keep ringing in my pocket.”

Stan shook his head again, and Kyle realizes he was chastising himself. Shaking his head at past Stan, at all the decisions he made, at everything he got into. Kyle wanted to comfort him, to tell him that he was upset and depressed and it wasn’t his fault—but he feared even the slightest noise would break Stan out of this trance and he wouldn’t be able to continue.

“Ben was getting annoyed at my phone, and I remember so clearly how he just reached out and pulled it out of my pocket. I thought it was funny that he did that. Like we were already best friends. I remember thinking, ‘This is it, this guy is my new best friend. This is it.’ And for so long before that, you know, I’d been thinking about you. And about what it would be like, you know…to be with you. I’d been sleeping around with all these girls and picturing them as guys, because I was just so fucking curious, you know?”

Kyle did know. Kyle tried dating girls in high school and pictured them as boys.

“So I’m really drunk, and he takes my phone out of my pocket, and I think it’s so funny. And he sets the phone aside and then immediately goes back to unbutton my pants. And I’m still laughing. I don’t think I actually register what’s happening until I’m lying on the floor and he’s on top of me. Even then, I don’t think I was all the way there. I just remember thinking, ‘This is it. This is it.’ I didn’t—I didn’t tell him no, you know? I obviously wanted it, or at least some part of me did. I know now that it’s wrong, or whatever, that he did that to me while I was so wasted and he wasn’t—but I’d been so fucking curious for so long, I didn’t want to fuck it up. And it—it didn’t last long, I don’t remember much about how it felt. It hurt, I know that mostly because of when I woke up the next day. The only thing I remember is my face being on the ground, and I’m looking to the side, and my phone is ringing and the caller ID says ‘Mom.’”

“Jesus,” Kyle finally breathes. This was Stan’s first time. Kyle’s first time was with Jacob, who was kind and considerate and let Kyle top. He kept asking Kyle if it was okay. And even then, even with a guy like Jacob, Kyle felt nervous and awkward. And Stan’s first time was on a basement floor, so drunk that he was sick, while some guy…

“It wasn’t even that bad,” Stan said, and made a noise that sounded like a laugh, but wasn’t smiling. “That wasn’t even really the bad stuff. That’s just…like…the setup, you know, for the rest of the story. I mean, it was obviously—rough. But I don’t even really remember all of it. And I remember the other stuff, and that’s why it’s so bad.”

Kyle’s head swam. “Okay,” he whispered, nodding for Stan to continue. Stan shrugged, closing in on himself, trying to look smaller. Trying to sound casual. He always did this when the conversation got too heavy.

“In the morning he gave me his number and drove me back home. I was stupid enough to just be happy that someone gave me his number. That maybe I could have friends. I’d been living with Mom, and all she did was lie in bed. And everyone else was gone. I thought maybe this would be a nice escape. Ben. He was attractive. He drove me home. I went to his place the next day, and we just chilled and watched TV. It was like that for a few weeks, and it was so…nice. We didn’t even do anything. God, I was so stupidly happy.”

“That’s not stupid,” Kyle said. Stan shrugged again and Kyle shut up.

“Two weeks later we went to another party, and Ben kept talking about how exhausted he was. About how much he needed a break. He shot up first, and then asked me if I wanted to. I said no. And then he kissed me. It was just the two of us in a bedroom. And I realized he hadn’t kissed me the last time. And I thought it was nice. It was what I’d been waiting for, for so long. And then after he kissed me, he held out the needle, and I didn’t know how to do it. So he did it for me. And then we had sex, and then we went back to the party. And that was…that. We got high again the next night, when it was just the two of us at his apartment. And we had sex again. And I was just so happy to be away from South Park, even if it was just for a few hours. And I remember you told me that the first time you had sex, it was like, this enormous fucking liberation. And that’s kind of what it felt like for me, too.”

Stan looked to the ceiling and blinked rapidly. Kyle knew about Stan’s drug use. He knew what drugs he usually took, where he usually took them. He knew why Stan did it. So that wasn’t the worst part of the story. They hadn’t gotten there yet. Kyle nodded robotically before forcing himself to speak.

“Stan, if you don’t want to talk about…”

“No, it’s okay. I should. I need to. It’s over, right? It’s just talking. In five minutes it’ll be over.” Stan offered Kyle a smile. Kyle’s throat became tight.

“Okay,” Kyle managed. “Keep going.”

“That went on for about a month, I guess. I got an apartment. And then Ben lost his. He couldn’t pay his rent. So he spent most of his time with me. I kept telling myself that we were kind of like a couple—but most of the time we were drunk or high or fucking. I guess I got tired of it. That was all we did. He wanted it all the time. Soon I was looking to get away from it all just for a bit, and I got a job at a gas station. He laughed at me for it. Thought it was stupid. And I tried to get sober, Kyle, I swear I did.” Stan looked at Kyle, desperate for Kyle to believe him. No matter how many months had passed, Stan never stopped looking for Kyle’s approval. He never stopped making promises to Kyle, or telling Kyle that he was trying so hard to get better. Kyle always told Stan that he was an idiot—of course he was getting better. Of course he was trying so hard.

“The more I worked, the angrier Ben got. I think he was mad because he didn’t have a job and he felt stupid, or something. I don’t know. My therapist says that when people are angry, they’re usually angry at themselves. Maybe Ben was just angry at himself. I was still drinking a lot, but I wasn’t doing the drugs as much. And he hated that. One night he forced a pill down my throat, and I had no idea what it was. I woke up in the middle of the night with no memory of the past six hours. I’d missed work. My boss was mad. And Ben just told me to go back to sleep.” Stan took two deep breaths in, and two deep breaths out. Kyle remembered that exercise from his early days of therapy. He remembered Stan rolling his eyes at it, putting on a show, but saw Stan’s chest rise and fall every time he got bad.

“The next day I lit into him. I was so mad. I knew that the pill did something, and that was the reason I missed work. I started yelling at him, and he punched me. I thought it was nothing, you know? Guys punch each other. Whatever. But then he did it again, and I fell, and he got on top of me and just…kept going. He was so angry. He just kept hitting me. And I couldn’t even fight back, I was tired and dehydrated and hungover. He decided he was done and he got up and went to the bedroom and locked himself up in there. I just lay there for ages. A few hours later we got dinner and it was like nothing happened. I didn’t know what to say. I felt so stupid.”

“You weren’t stupid,” Kyle said.

“I know. That’s what my therapist says.”

“Well, she’s right. You were scared.”

“Yeah.”

“Was that when you got the restraining order?” Kyle asked, and Stan gave him a funny look.

“I didn’t get the restraining order until about six months later.”

“You—Jesus, Stan, he was still allowed to be near you? After that?”

“I—” Stan suddenly looked self-conscious, and Kyle again wanted to punch himself. “I allowed him to be near me. I stayed. I didn’t know what else to do.”

“Okay.”

“Stupid, I know.”

“No.”

“It didn’t happen again for a few weeks. We got drunk together, we got high together, I went to work. It was normal. And then I got mad at him again for something stupid—he always let the dishes pile up on the table right next to the bed—and I asked him to stop doing that. And he said he would get to it. So I went to get the dishes, because I was sick of looking at them there, and all of a sudden he was right there next to me. He grabs the dishes and slams them on the ground and shoves me on the bed, and he’s mad because he said he would get to it, and I didn’t listen to him. And then all of a sudden, he’s mad because we don’t have sex as much as he wants to. And I—I’m an idiot, and I’m in the heat of the moment—and I tell him maybe he should roofie me again, if he wants sex so bad. And he says that if he wants it, he gets it, and…well, he does.”

There is complete silence. Even the cars outside the apartment window have stopped making noise. The wind has stopped blowing. Kyle holds his breath, partly out of fear that he’ll say something stupid again.

“When he’s finished, he leaves, and—it was like a crime scene, dude. There’s glass everywhere. There’s blood all over the sheets. It’s literally like a scene from Law and Order, or some shit like that.” Stan’s told this story before. Multiple times, maybe. Maybe this is what took two years for him to come to terms with. Occasionally, Kyle wondered what Stan and his therapist talked about; he wondered if they’d already covered all the bases. And now Kyle realized they probably had, but maybe not without Stan having a meltdown. Maybe Stan was just waiting to tell Kyle until he could talk without vomiting. Kyle wasn’t sure he could listen without vomiting, though.

Stan propped his elbows up on the coffee table and played with the sleeve of his sweater.

“When I finally got up, Ben was gone. So I cleaned the room and washed the sheets and fell asleep on the couch. And Ben came home sometime in the middle of the night and woke me up and told me to come to bed, and I did. And that kind of shit just kept on happening. I lost my job. I kept missing work. Some days I’d wake up and have no idea what time it was or what day it was. I started shooting up almost every night. And after we got high, Ben would do whatever he needed with me, and then I’d go sleep on the couch. He stopped making me sleep in the bed with him. It got to be pretty normal, after a while. He didn’t hit me so often, because I knew the routine, you know? I didn’t really try to do anything else or go anywhere else. I stopped talking to Mom and Shelley, because I knew they’d just be sad. Sometimes your mom called me. She always got gas for the van at the gas station I worked at, so she saw how bad it got, and got worried when I stopped working there. But other than that, it was just me and the drugs and the alcohol and Ben, when he needed me.”

Kyle closed his eyes. Stan shooting up and getting violated night after night. Wandering around the shittiest part of town not knowing the date or time. Sheila, watching it all happen. Kyle’s gut twisted with guilt when he thought about all the times his mother called him and asked him if he’d ever talk to Stan again, and Kyle would snap at her. She was watching this kid she knew for his entire life slowly wither away and die, and she just wanted Kyle to reach out to him.

“Almost done, I promise,” Stan said softly, and when Kyle opened his eyes, Stan was offering him that same smile—the smile that promised hope and comfort and all the shit that Kyle should be giving Stan. He’d definitely told this story before. He was probably scared to tell Kyle because he knew Kyle would react like this. And Kyle wanted to be the strong one, he really did.

“I mean, there’s actually not much more to say after that. One day I talked to Ike—I’d run into Sheila, and she said that Ike was studying abroad in Russia. And I said I wanted to talk to him. I was so desperate for someone to talk to other than Ben. And she gave me his number, and I called him immediately. And we just talked. And it was so fucking great. We talked about things that happened in South Park when we were kids—funny things, ridiculous shit—and he was so grown up and funny. Turning into, like, a man. Little Ike. And when we hung up, I started to miss you like crazy. I couldn’t stop thinking about what you’d be like—you’d be grown up, too. You’d be an actual man, and not a kid anymore, and that drove me insane that I didn’t know what you were like as an adult. And I just—snapped. I went upstairs to the apartment and I threw away everything. I mean—everything.” Stan’s eyes glazed over. “Coke. Heroin. Weed. Alcohol. All the needles, absolutely everything. I was going insane. Like I thought that if all that shit disappeared, nothing would have even happened. You’d be here, we’d be kids again, we’d move on together. And Ben came home right after I’d flushed the last of it all.”

“You were so fucked up at the hospital,” Kyle said suddenly. “I mean—I mean, obviously that—but you were all bruised, you had two black eyes, and everything…” Kyle trailed off. “I thought that it just had to do with the drugs. I thought maybe you got into bar fights sometimes, with your temper. It wasn’t that. Jesus Christ, I’m an idiot.”

Stan shook his head. “A solid guess, dude. I mean, I got into fights all the time. But, yeah, that one wasn’t a fight at a bar with some guy. That was all Ben.” Stan’s eyes clouded, and it was the first time Kyle saw him look genuinely angry. “Jesus, he was so mad. Mad doesn’t even describe it. He was…out of his body. That’s the only way I know how to describe it. I passed out pretty quickly, I don’t remember most of it. I just remember waking up screaming, everything hurt so much. I didn’t even know where the pain was coming from. I couldn’t even walk for the longest time. I just lay there on the floor until I passed out again. Ben came back in the middle of the night with a bunch of new shit. He shot up, and then he stuck the needle in me, and then he disappeared again. That was the last time I saw him.”

Stan took a breath and let it out loudly. He rubbed his eyes, looking exhausted.

“That’s basically it. I was alone again, my apartment was full of booze and drugs, and I didn’t even have Ben to talk to. I felt like I wasn’t even living, you know? Like I was in this weird state of existence and nothing was real. I lost track of everything. And then, you know, around two weeks later, I decided to end it. And that’s where you come in.”

“That’s where I come in,” Kyle repeated numbly. And then his face crumpled. So much for being the strong one. Kyle buried his head in his hands and sobbed once, twice. Stan just sat frozen, waiting for Kyle to speak. Kyle tried to speak, but his throat wouldn’t let him get a word out. So he just sat there, pressing his heels into his eyes until he saw patterns, and Stan waited patiently.

“Jesus,” Kyle finally said, rubbing his eyes and lifting his head. “Why didn’t you tell me? You could have told me, you could have told me that very day—I would’ve helped you, I could’ve—”

“The people at the hospital helped me get the restraining order. Come on, dude, you think that I was in any shape to tell you about that? There was so much shit between us that needed figuring out first.”

“Yeah, but that—you shouldn’t have had to go through that alone, you could have told me, Stan!”

“I felt gross. All used up. Face fucked up beyond repair. And you didn’t even know that I was sleeping with guys—it felt like a betrayal. It still feels like that. You’re this perfect guy, you’re sweet and you’re hot and—” Stan paused, suddenly blushing furiously. “It’s pretty terrifying, you know. To tell you all this, knowing that you’ll probably never want—you know—I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Stan,” Kyle blurted, “This doesn’t change anything about how I feel about you. You have to know that. You’re insane to think it would. All this shit is bad, yeah, but that’s what we’ve been working for the past two years. It doesn’t change you as a person, it’s just, like, a small detour that you took and now you’re back on track.”

“A small detour,” Stan smiled. Kyle snorted and shrugged.

“Kinda. You know what I mean.”

“I don’t…” Stan tore his eyes away from Kyle’s and looked out the window. His eyes were like diamonds against his pale skin. He’d gotten a haircut last week, and it was at that perfect grown out length that drew all the attention to his strong jaw and thick eyebrows. He swallowed and Kyle watched his Adam’s apple bob, mind automatically going to that place where he wondered what it’d be like to put his mouth on Stan’s neck. A completely inappropriate thought for this moment, Kyle knew, but he couldn’t help it. His mind has been thinking that since junior high.

“I don’t want it to change what you see when you look at me,” Stan finally admitted. “I don’t want you to look at me and feel pity. I don’t want you to see some guy that’s been hurt. This thing has defined me for so long, I don’t want it to be all you see when you look at me.”

“Dude,” Kyle said, almost wanting to tell Stan what he was just thinking, but Stan pushed on.

“I mean, I’m clean. Like…in terms of…” Stan glanced at Kyle but then looked away, cheeks on fire again. “I’m safe. To, like, be with. They’ve checked. So I’m not totally gross in that sense, but, still, I get that it’s—kind of gross. Being with Ben, and a few other guys I can’t even remember. But I am…you know…clean.”

And it dawned on Kyle. Stan was telling Kyle that he was safe to sleep with. He wasn’t asking for it—but he was letting Kyle know that if he did decide to do anything, he’d be safe to do it. Kyle caught his breath. Stan’s therapist told Stan that if he planned on having a future with Kyle, then Kyle should know the story. And then Stan made it clear that he was clean. Ball was in Kyle’s court, and Kyle had no idea what to do with it.

“Dude,” Kyle repeated, “This doesn’t change anything. I look at you, and I see Stan. Just like always.”

“Come on,” Stan said, “After everything I just told you?”

“Do I feel pity? Do I feel guilty? Stan, I hate that Ben did that to you. Yeah, it makes me want to throw up. It makes me want to shoot Ben in the face. I’ll probably cry myself to sleep tonight, might as well tell you that now. But I look at you, and I see you. Only you.” Kyle took a deep breath. “You know, in high school, I used to have these crazy sex dreams about you. And now, almost ten years later…well…some things don’t change.”

Stan’s eyes snapped to Kyle’s, and there was the look—the look that dared Kyle to make a move, that flirty, crazy sexy look that made Kyle want to jump Stan then and there. Eyes dark. Lips slightly parted. Tongue just barely visible, peeking through those white teeth.

“Yeah?” Stan finally said—a dare, a breath of relief all in one—and it was such a confusing mixture of arousal and heartbreak and overwhelming love that tugged in Kyle’s chest. Kyle just nodded, the walls behind Stan slowly melting as the sounds outside disappeared.

“Yeah.”

“Gonna do anything about it?”

Oh, god.

Ball was definitely in Kyle’s court.

“Right now? No.” Kyle spoke before he could stop himself. Honesty. It was stupid and it was difficult, but honestly, Kyle’s head still swam with images of Stan being beaten by that fucking loser. And honestly, maybe Stan had two years to work through this, but Kyle barely had two minutes.

“I’m—overwhelmed, I guess. I meant it when I said this doesn’t change how I look at you. But I need a second. I…” Kyle laughed suddenly, realizing he hasn’t said this to Stan in ten years. “I love you, Stan. Jesus, I love you so fucking much. More than I’ve ever loved anything. And to hear about what happened to you, it’s—”

“I get it,” Stan said immediately, catching Kyle by surprise. Stan never did well with rejection. “My therapist said this would suck for you more than it would for me. She told me to imagine if we were in opposite places, and I think I went a little insane when I pictured all that shit happening to you. So, yeah, I get it.”

Kyle tried to laugh, but it came out as a watery, snivelly snort.

“Let’s eat dinner.”

“Good god, you think I’m hungry?” Kyle asked incredulously. “I want to rip people’s faces off. I want to fucking explode. I don’t want to eat dinner.”

Stan grinned. “You should hit the gym. Why do you think I took up boxing?”

“To impress me,” Kyle replied easily, and just like that, they were back. Stan heated up a microwave dinner and the two of them talked about what they wanted to do that weekend. They brushed their teeth and went to bed early—Stan in his bedroom, and Kyle on the pull-out bed in the living room. Kyle vaguely wondered how long it would be before he and Stan would both be sleeping in the bedroom.

Kyle waited until he was sure Stan was asleep to burst into tears. In two years, it was the hardest he’d cried, and when he was exhausted and his head hurt and his eyes were seemingly permanently bloodshot, he thought that maybe, just maybe, it was the last thing that he’d have to cry about for a long time.

* * *

 

They’d planned a trip that weekend. Hiking in the mountains. It had been ages since they went anywhere, and with the two of them working and not spending much on their one-bedroom apartment, they saved up a good amount to indulge themselves. They bought high-quality camping gear the next day, and Kyle couldn’t remember the last time he had so much fun shopping for an activity that he usually hated. He made Stan try on new clothes and laughed until he cried at the floppy hats Stan donned and boots Stan walked around the store in until he tripped and took down a rack of coats. Stan bought excessive amounts of sunscreen for Kyle, which the redhead rolled his eyes at. And before they left the store and walked back into the sunlight, Stan stopped Kyle seriously, only to slap a handful of sunscreen on Kyle’s neck. Kyle told him to fuck off, and Stan laughed all the way to the car.

The next morning, Kyle made a point to set the alarm extra early so that Stan would have his coffee and cheer up before they hit the road. He wanted nothing less than to kick off their trip with a bitter, angry, early-morning Stan. Sure enough, after Stan had his coffee, he took a shower and Kyle could hear him belting out showtunes.

“Ready?” Stan asked about an hour later. Kyle zipped up the green duffel bag he’d just finished packing and turned. Stan leaned against the doorway to the living room with his arms crossed over his broad chest, grinning. He wore the long-sleeved brown shirt that Kyle picked out for him and crappy, loose-fitting jeans. His eyes, blue in some light and green in others, looked especially green. Kyle wore the blue shirt he knew Stan loved on him.

“Ready,” Kyle said, patting the duffel bag.

“I have your sunscreen in my bag, I think,” Stan said, heaving his own duffel over his shoulder. “Also, I’m in charge of the map, because I don’t trust you.”

“And you think that you are somehow more trustworthy with a map?”

“More so than you. You suck at directions.” Stan closed the distance between him and Kyle and paused when he got to the door of the apartment. “Are you bringing your keys, or should I bring mine?”

“I’ll bring them. You’ll lose them.”

Stan huffed. “Next time we do this, we’ll have a dog. I know you keep telling me no, but just, like, picture how much better this would be if we had a dog.”

“Stan, we talked about this,” Kyle groaned. “A dog in this apartment would go nuts.”

“Well, we’d have to get a bigger place, obviously.”

Stan opened the door and shut off the light. He turned back to Kyle, who still hadn’t picked up his bag. Stan’s forehead crinkled.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” Kyle breathed, and reached behind Stan with one arm and closed the door, and with the other, put a hand on Stan’s neck and pulled him in until their lips crashed together.

Stan’s bag hit the ground with a thud and his hands flew to Kyle’s face.

Kyle couldn’t say what did it. Maybe it was how good Stan looked in that shirt that made his eyes look so green, or his promise of a bigger apartment one day and a dog, or the fact that they were about to leave together to go on a trip, and Stan was looking so healthy and sexy and finally _happy_ —whatever the reason, Kyle was kissing him now, and he thought he might die.

It was a chaste thing; their mouths were closed and there was no prodding or biting or tongue, but Kyle felt heat pool in his gut. Stan’s lips were full and soft and his neck was so hot under Kyle’s hand and Jesus, it was finally happening. Stan inhaled deeply through his nose and broke the kiss to lean his forehead against Kyle’s, already gasping.

“Now?” He asked, and Kyle could hear the incredulous smile in his voice.

“You gotta tell me now if you don’t want this, because I don’t think I’ll be able to stop,” Kyle said, and his voice came out lower than he intended. Stan swallowed and nodded shortly.

“Yeah. Yeah, I don’t plan on stopping, either,” Stan breathed, and Kyle grinned, heart swelling suddenly. He brought their lips back together and didn’t hesitate in opening his mouth and biting down on that plump red lower lip he’d been dreaming of for the past ten years. Stan gasped and Kyle plunged his tongue inside the taller man’s mouth, moaning unashamedly at the sudden wet heat. He looped his arms around Stan’s neck and brought their bodies flush against one another. Stan was already half hard, of which Kyle felt immensely proud. Kyle pressed Stan even tighter to himself when he felt hands move to his ass and squeeze. Stan broke the kiss briefly to gasp again, and Kyle was about to ask him if he was okay before Stan put his hands against Kyle’s chest and gently pushed him backwards. They only made it as far as the couch before collapsing, Stan covering Kyle’s body with his own, lips working on Kyle’s, grasping and groping before Kyle’s mind could even catch up.

“Is this okay?” Stan breathed, lips just centimeters from Kyle’s, as he fumbled with the redhead’s belt. Kyle nodded furiously, Stan’s neck hot beneath his hands. He was becoming embarrassingly hard from this – from Stan’s hands at his jeans, Stan’s forehead against his, Stan, Stan, _Stan_ –

Kyle suddenly surged forward and kissed Stan hard, swallowing his moan and flipping them. Unfortunately, the couch was only so wide, and the two of them ended up on the living room floor, with Kyle straddling Stan and Stan on his back.

“Sorry,” Kyle laughed. Stan grinned, hands at Kyle’s chest.

“It’s okay.”

He slipped one hand underneath Kyle’s shirt and reached up until he could grasp at one of Kyle’s nipples. Kyle moaned and unconsciously canted his hips forward, his clothed erection grinding hard against Stan’s. Stan arched his back and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Fuck.” Kyle closed his eyes. He could listen to Stan sounding like that forever. He continued to slowly rock back and forth, back and forth, and Jesus, it was almost like fucking, it was so good and so real. Stan continued to moan under his breath, eyes closed so tight it looked painful. Kyle took Stan’s hand out from underneath his shirt and leaned closer.

“I’m just gonna ask again – ”

“God, Kyle, yes, this is _okay_ ,” Stan laughed. “Doesn’t it feel like I’m okay?” Stan lifted his hips a fraction of an inch and Kyle hissed at the contact. Stan took advantage of the sudden silence and went back to work at his jeans, sliding the belt out of the loops and popping the button. Kyle moaned as Stan slid his hand between his legs and rubbed, just hard enough.

“I’ve wanted this for so long – so long,” Stan breathed, eyes fixed on his own hand moving back and forth. Kyle whimpered and pushed his hips forward, desperate for more. Stan’s eyes snapped up to his and he growled. “Take your shirt off.”

Kyle didn’t have to be told twice.

He ripped his shirt off an instantly Stan’s hands were all over him, groping, grabbing, squeezing. Stan looked up at him in wonderment, like he couldn’t believe what was happening. Kyle could understand how that felt. He shooed away Stan’s hands and lifted the hem of Stan’s shirt. Stan tensed suddenly.

“I’ve got – I don’t look like – I don’t look like you do,” He said finally, voice shaking, hands trembling as they grasped Kyle’s wrists. “I’ve got scars and shit. And in the places I shot up – I don’t look so good, anymore,” he stammered, suddenly refusing to meet Kyle’s eyes. Kyle felt a pang in his gut.

“You look amazing,” Kyle whispered. He felt Stan’s grip loosen. “You look handsome.” He leaned forward and planted a kiss on Stan’s neck. “And healthy.” He kissed Stan’s chin. “And sexy.” The side of Stan’s mouth, his nose, his forehead, any bit of skin that showed until Stan’s hands fell to his sides.

“I love you,” Kyle said, quieter than quiet. “Nothing’s gonna change that.”

Stan nodded jerkily and held his breath, waiting. Kyle took that as his cue. He lifted Stan’s shirt away and ran his fingers along his chest, his arms, the crook of his elbow. Overcome with emotion, tears pricking at his eyes, Kyle bent down and lightly kissed Stan’s lower lip.

“I love you,” Kyle repeated, and planted a kiss in the middle of Stan’s chest – and then he did it again, lips parted, and let his tongue snake through and taste Stan’s skin. It was nothing like he imagined it would be. How could Kyle have possibly ever imagined something so perfect? He did it again and again and again, licking and sucking his way to Stan’s belly button, and then moved his head to Stan’s shoulder.

“Kyle,” Stan whimpered, as Kyle descended one of Stan’s long, tanned arms. He paused at the crook in his elbow and kissed gently, sweetly, with a barely-there touch. He did the same to Stan’s forearms and hands, darting his tongue out to lick at the sweat collecting in Stan’s palm.

“How far do you want to go?” Kyle asked, hands moving to Stan’s crotch. He rubbed with one hand and undid Stan’s jeans with the other. Kyle felt painfully hard in his boxers.

“I’ve wanted to go all the way with you for about ten years,” Stan said. “Absolutely nothing is off-limits right now.”

Kyle slid off Stan’s pants and boxers in one go and laughed.

“Nothing?” He asked, exaggeratedly deviously, and wiggled his eyebrows. Stan propped himself up on his elbows and rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, dumbass,” He said. “From the looks of it, you’re on the same page.”

Stan had a point. Kyle absently rubbed himself through his boxers. Stan looked amazingly debauched right now; stark naked, chest flushed, cheeks pink. Kyle had imagined this so many times and yet none of those dreams held a candle to the real thing. Kyle’s eyes flickered to Stan’s naked thighs.

“I told you, dude, I don’t look like I used to,” Stan stammered, suddenly anxious again. Kyle said nothing – just looked at the long, dwindling scars from the top of Stan’s thighs to his knees. He brought his hands to touch them lightly.

“You look perfect,” Kyle said earnestly, looking directly at Stan.

“What were you thinking? Just now, when you were looking at them.” Stan searched Kyle’s face with worried eyes, chest moving a bit faster, now, and not from arousal. Kyle smiled sadly and leaned forward to kiss Stan hard on the mouth.

“I was thinking,” Kyle said, moving his lips down to Stan’s neck, his chest, his belly, the crook of his hip. “I was thinking how sorry I am.” Kyle kissed Stan’s thigh directly on a particularly nasty scar. “How sad I am that you had to go through all this.” Kyle licked all the way down to Stan’s knee, and then back up. “How happy I am that you made it through.”

Stan let out a watery laugh.

“I wouldn’t have made it without you.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to stick around.”

Kyle kissed Stan and slid a thigh between his legs. They rocked together and moaned into one another’s mouths, all heat and tongue and teeth. Stan hooked a finger around Kyle’s boxers and pulled – they came off almost instantly. Kyle laughed at that.

“Where’d you learn to do that?” Kyle asked, and hissed as his cock sprung out. “Very smooth.”

“I like to think so,” Stan smirked, and put a large, warm hand on Kyle’s chest. “I’m pretty out of practice, actually. Go easy on me.”

“Right back at you.” Kyle lifted Stan’s hand to his mouth and licked a wide, flat strip across his palm. Stan moaned, never taking his eyes off of Kyle’s.

“Shit, dude.”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed, licking Stan’s hand again. “Shit.”

Kyle lowered Stan’s hand in between them and, taking Kyle’s cue, Stan wrapped it around them. Kyle nearly shouted at the wet, hot contact of Stan’s cock with his own. He gripped Stan’s shoulder hard enough to leave a mark as Stan stroked them, rough and slow. Stan was making gruff, low noises in the back of his throat, and Kyle thought he could come from that alone. After a few minutes, painfully hard and dangerously close, Kyle tapped Stan’s wrist and Stan released them.

“Lube?” Kyle asked, and Stan nodded.

“In my bag.”

“The one you packed for the trip? Was your plan this entire time to get into my pants?”

“Yeah, and it turns out, you were incredibly easy. Didn’t even make it out the door.”

Kyle snorted and reached toward Stan’s bag. Sure enough, there it was, a small bottle in the outside pocket. He brought it in front of them and they paused. Stan sat up from his spot on the floor.

“Do you – I don’t really – ”

“You getting shy on me now, Brovlofski?” Stan knocked Kyle’s shoulder jokingly. “What do you want?”

“I don’t know. What do you want?”

“I asked you first.”

“I asked you second.”

“Dude!” Stan groaned and leaned back on one hand. With the other, he casually started to stroke his cock. Kyle felt his stomach swoop.

“I just – I want to make this good for you.”

“I want to make this good for _you_ ,” Stan said. “You deserve it. You deserve everything. Anything you want, and we’ll do it.”

“So do you,” Kyle said weakly. “You’ve been through – I know you don’t like it when I say shit like this, so I won’t – I just – I want this to be so good for you, Stan, you’ve done so good, and I want to make this perfect…” Kyle trailed off, unable to continue, with Stan looking right at him and touching himself like that – it was torturous.

“I’ve thought of you fucking me,” Stan growled. Kyle felt his cock twitch. “I thought of it so long. So often. Back in high school, in college – when I was really in the shit, even, I would picture you coming back and saving my sorry ass and then fucking me like I was _worth_ something, like you _wanted_ me…”

“You are,” Kyle choked, eyes welling up with tears. “I do.”

“I thought of you inside me so many times…I wonder if I know how it feels, just because I dreamed it so much.” Stan let his head fall back and he moaned, squeezing his cock. “I wanna know how it feels.”

“Okay,” Kyle whispered. “Okay.” The air was still, the intensity of the moment crashing down on them.

“Get on the couch.”

Stan obeyed immediately and Kyle had to take a few deep, long breaths at the sight of Stan spread out and waiting for him, cock hard against his stomach, blue eyes darkened with lust. Kyle crawled over him, hovering, silently asking Stan one last time if it would be all right.

“Do it,” Stan finally said, the words just barely slipping out before Kyle licked into his mouth. He prodded and massaged Stan’s hole with his fingers, gasping when he found it slightly open and ready for him already.

“What…”

“I touched myself this morning,” Stan moaned, tightening around Kyle. “Opened myself up and everything. Thought about you. Thought about this.”

“Oh, fuck, Stan,” Kyle whimpered, slipping two fingers into him. He watched his pale, freckled fingers disappear and then reappear again, enraptured. “Fuck. Jesus, Stan.”

“Fuck me.” Stan was practically writhing beneath Kyle. “Fuck me, Kyle, I’m ready, I want it, I need this, please…”

“Okay,” Kyle gasped, “Jesus, okay. Yeah. Let’s do it.”

“If you want a condom – I’m clean, you know, but just in case – I would understand if you didn’t want to, after – after – ”

“I want to,” Kyle said into Stan’s neck. “More than anything. Anything that’s happened…it already happened. It’s just you and me now, babe.”

“Babe,” Stan whispered. His eyes were closed again, like he was trying to slip away – run far off somewhere that Kyle couldn’t follow.

“I’m here,” Kyle said, and put a hand on Stan’s cheek. His eyes fluttered open. “We’re here.”

“Yeah. We are.”

Kyle smiled a watery smile and kissed Stan before he could make fun of him for crying. With his lips hard on Stan’s and tongue firmly in his mouth, Kyle coated his cock with lube and lined himself up with Stan.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Kyle said, letting go of Stan’s mouth. “Tell me, and I’ll stop right away.”

“Okay.” Stan’s voice shook. “It’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. It will.”

With that, Kyle pushed forward, just an inch, and moaned so loudly he briefly wondered if the neighbors could hear him. Stan let out a breath and tightened his grip on Kyle’s arms. Kyle studied Stan closely before moving again; his mouth open, cheeks flushed, brows furrowed, but not in pain. Kyle thrusted forward.

“Fuck! Kyle!” Stan cried out, arching his back. Sweat dripped down his forehead and neck. “Oh, god, Kyle!”

“Is it okay?” Kyle panted. “Are you okay? Tell me if it hurts, Stan, I swear to god – ”

“It’s okay,” Stan breathed, “I swear. You feel so fucking good, Kyle – move, you can move, it’ll feel so good…”

He wasn’t wrong. Kyle pulled back and then thrust forward, the obscene slap of skin filling the air and making Kyle’s cock twitch inside Stan. He did it again. And then again. And then again, until he was thrusting in earnest, filling Stan up and crying out with each push, and Kyle had never in his _life_ felt anything this fucking _amazing_ before – Stan was perfect around him, under him, moaning and writhing and crying out into the still, quiet air of their home.

“You feel so fucking amazing,” Kyle grunted, holding onto Stan’s hips as he thrust forward. “You’re so – fucking – perfect ”

“I’m sorry,” Stan sobbed, and Kyle immediately stilled.

“Stan? Jesus, Stan, I’m so sorry – ” He moved to pull out of Stan, but Stan caught him by the wrist. His blue eyes were wide with tears. Kyle felt his heart break.

“No, don’t stop,” Stan cried. “I’m sorry. I’m just – so long, I wanted this for so long, and I didn’t think it would ever happen.” Stan snaked his arm up Kyle’s forearm, bicep, shoulder, and stopped to cradle the back of his neck. “Things were so bad, and I missed you so much that it hurt.” Stan furiously wiped his eyes with his free hand. Kyle leaned forward so he could practically lie on top of Stan.

“I know,” Kyle whispered into Stan’s mouth. “I’m here now. We’re here now.”

“I’m sorry,” Stan sobbed again, tucking his face into Kyle’s shoulder. “I’m not hurt – it’s just – I’m just – ”

“I know,” Kyle repeated. “Me, too.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I won’t.”

Kyle resumed his pace, arms still wrapped around Stan’s back, Stan’s legs around his hips and face tucked into his neck. They were so close by now, so fused, that they could probably crawl into one another and never look back. Stan cried and swore and moaned into Kyle’s bare skin, and Kyle squeezed his eyes shut tight.

“I’m not gonna last – ” Kyle huffed, turning his face and burying his nose in Stan’s hair. “Fuck, Stan, you’re so good, I’m not gonna last.”

“Then don’t,” Stan said. “Then come.”

So Kyle did.

He came with a full body shudder and a silent cry, his heart in his throat. He collapsed on top of Stan, breathing heavily, absent mindedly kissing Stan’s neck and chest. It wasn’t until Kyle shifted and went to pull out of Stan that he realized that Stan was still hard.

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry,” Kyle rushed. “Let me take care of you.”

“You don’t have to. It’s fine.”

Kyle glanced up at Stan and wondered, before he could stop himself, before he could shut that thought out, how many times Stan has had sex and how many times Stan had actually come from that. He looked so – well, he looked fucking adorable, with that messy black hair sticking in a million directions and his rosy cheeks. Kyle felt a swell of affection come over him.

“Of course I do,” Kyle said. “It’s you, dude. I want to.”

“You don’t – ah, shit,” Stan sighed as Kyle, without a moment’s hesitation, took Stan in his mouth. The heady smell of it – the weight of it on his tongue – it was something Kyle spent most of his high school years imagining. It was nothing like what he thought it would be. He could do this for hours, probably – sucking Stan off and moaning around his cock, bracketed by Stan’s shaking legs. Unfortunately, by the twitch of Stan’s cock, Kyle knew he wouldn’t get that chance. He glanced up and saw Stan biting his lip hard enough to draw blood, hands in tight fists.

“Stan,” Kyle said, letting Stan’s cock fall from his mouth. “It’s okay.”

A sob escaped. Stan clasped a hand over his mouth as his face crumpled.

“I’m here.”

Kyle kissed Stan’s knee, eyes not once straying from Stan’s own.

He moved his mouth up to kiss the tip of Stan’s scar, breathing lightly over it before planting his lips.

“We’re here now.”

Stan came with a cry. His back arched and hands uncurled to clasp Kyle’s hands. Kyle held Stan’s hands through his orgasm, rubbing his thumb against smooth skin, a silent comfort as Stan jerked and writhed. Stan swore once, twice, and then came down, sinking against the cushions.

“Fuck, Kyle.”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, Jesus.”

“Yeah.”

Kyle moved to prop his cheek on Stan’s bent knee. They caught their breath for a moment, staring at one another, until they both dissolved into a fit of laughter. Stan’s chest shook – it looked inviting, so Kyle crawled up and curled into it, still trying to stifle his giggles. Stan’s arm automatically came up to encase Kyle’s shoulders. They laughed until they were out of breath, until silence overcame them and they could breathe in sync.

“Thank you,” Stan finally said, voice rough against the quiet, still air. Kyle looked up.

“For what? Sucking your cock?”

“Yeah, that too, I guess,” Stan snorted. He hummed and carded his fingers through Kyle’s hair. “For being patient. For coming back. For…I don’t know. For loving me, I guess.”

“Dude. Gay.” Kyle couldn’t stop himself from smiling, though, especially when Stan’s laughter lit up the room. He pressed his cheek more firmly into Stan’s chest and listened to his heartbeat. He would never stop being thankful for that heartbeat.

“I don’t regret it, you know,” Kyle said, when Stan had been silent for too long and thinking too hard. “I don’t regret any of it. Coming back. Seeing you in the hospital. Moving in with you, helping you stay clean. Being with you. Loving you. I don’t regret one second about being us.”

“You’re not here because…shit, I don’t know. Because you feel guilty? Because you think that, if you left, I’d jump off a bridge or something?” Stan’s voice was small. His fingers seemed just a little bit tighter on Kyle’s shoulder.

“Fuck, no.” Kyle grinned against Stan’s skin. “I’m here because I love you. I’m here because I think I was always meant to love you like this.”

“Yeah,” Stan said thoughtfully. “Back at you, dude.”

Their weekend bags lay abandoned by the door. Sunlight streamed through closed blinds, illuminating Stan – his scars, his tired eyes, his healthy, full body – wrapped around Kyle, loving him the way that he was always, always meant to.

* * *

 

It was evening on a Tuesday in the late fall when Stan placed a bouquet of flowers at his father’s grave. He knelt on the cold dirt and shut his eyes against a cool breeze that ruffled his hair. He said a quick prayer – was it a prayer, if you didn’t necessarily believe in god? – and then stood. They only had a few hours before their flight – his mom and Shelley had offered to drive them to the airport in just thirty minutes.

“You ready?” Kyle asked. He stood tall and warm next to Stan, brown coat wrapped around him tightly. Stan nodded, still looking at the gravestone.

“Yeah. You?”

“Yeah.”

They turned in sync and walked slowly toward the entrance of the cemetery. Kyle reached out and grabbed Stan’s hand. Stan intertwined their fingers and smiled.

“What would my dad say if he could see us now?” He asked, and Kyle laughed.

“Probably something stupid and homophobic and so perfectly Randy,” Kyle said. Stan snorted his agreement.

“He’d approve of you. It’s a pretty cool thing to be okay with gays. He just wanted to be cool more than anything else.”

“That’s true. He would probably do some research and then ask which one of us was the power bottom.”

“Ew!” Stan laughed, “Don’t talk about my dad talking about power bottoms.”

“Am I wrong, though?”

They laughed and talked about Randy all the way back to the car. Whenever Stan laughed, he would clutch Kyle’s hand a little harder – a twitch of his fingers, more than anything else. It was one of Kyle’s favorite things that he’d learned about Stan when they started dating. It gave him all the more reason to make Stan laugh.

“Hey, thanks for coming back with me,” Stan said neared the rental car. “I know that South Park isn’t your favorite place. It’s good to visit once in a while, though.”

“I dragged your ass out to California when I got a new job,” Kyle scoffed. “I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Stan laughed quietly. He let go of Kyle’s hand and turned to face him. “Still. Thank you.”

Kyle felt his heart swell up as he looked at Stan and felt a sweep of cool fall air. He leaned forward and kissed him, long and hard. When they broke apart, Kyle smiled brightly, genuinely, honestly.

“I’m glad I came back.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> The little mini "epilogue" at the end - I guess I imagine them living somewhere other than South Park. It became toxic for both of them, and in my vision, I see them packing up and starting a life together elsewhere. Sort of a compromise - they both will thrive as long as they get away from the bad memories (especially Stan). 
> 
> Thank you very much for reading!


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